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PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


MARY  MARIE.     Illustrated. 

DAWN.     Illustrated. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS.     Illustrated. 

THE  TIE  THAT    BINDS.     Illustrated. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS.     Illustrated. 

OH,   MONEY!   MONEY!     Illustrated. 

THE   ROAD  TO    UNDERSTANDING.     Illustrated. 

JUST  DAVID.     Illustrated. 


MAEY  MARIE 


IF  I  CONSULTED  NO  ONE'S  WISHES  BUT  MY  OWN,  1  SHOULD 

KEEP  HER  HERE  ALWAYS"   (page  143) 


MAEY  MAEIE 

BY 
ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 


With  Illustrations  by 
Helen  Mason   Grose 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY   THE    CROWELL   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    I92O,    BY    ELEANOR    H.    PORTER 


ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

ELIZABETH  S.  BOWEN 


CONTENTS 

Preface,  which  explains  Things  1 

I.  I  am  Born  7 

II.  Nurse  Sarah's  Story  18 

III.  The  Break  is  Made  26 

IV.  When  I  am  Marie  41 
V.  When  I  am  Mary  70 

VI.  When  I  am  Both  Together  145 

VII.  When  I  am  Neither  One  190 

VIII.  Which  is  the  Real  Love  Story  215 

IX.  Which  is  the  Test 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"If  I  CONSULTED  NO  ONE'S  WISHES  BUT  MY  OWN,  I 

SHOULD  KEEP  HER  HERE  ALWAYS* '  Frontispiece 

"i  told  her  not  to  worry  a  bit  about  me"  68 

"Why  must  you  wait,  darling?"  164 

Then  I  told  him  my  idea  248 

From  drawings  by  Helen  Mason  Grose 


MARY  MARIE 

PREFACE 

Which  Explains  Things 

Father  calls  me  Mary.  Mother  calls  me  Marie* 
Everybody  else  calls  me  Mary  Marie.  The  rest 
of  my  name  is  Anderson. 

I'm  thirteen  years  old,  and  I'm  a  cross-cur- 
rent and  a  contradiction.  That  is,  Sarah  says  I  'm 
that.  (Sarah  is  my  old  nurse.)  She  says  she  read 
it  once  —  that  the  children  of  unlikes  were  al- 
ways a  cross-current  and  a  contradiction.  And 
my  father  and  mother  are  unlikes,  and  I'm  the 
children.  That  is,  I  'm  the  child.  I  'm  all  there  is. 
And  now  I'm  going  to  be  a  bigger  cross-current 
and  contradiction  than  ever,  for  I'm  going  to 
live  half  the  time  with  Mother  and  the  other  half 
with  Father.  Mother  will  go  to  Boston  to  live, 
and  Father  will  stay  here  —  a  divorce,  you  know. 

I  'm  terribly  excited  over  it.  None  of  the  other 
girls  have  got  a  divorce  in  their  families,  and  I 
always  did  like  to  be  different.  Besides,  it  ought 
to  be  awfully  interesting,  more  so  than  just  living 
along,  common,  with  your  father  and  mother  in 


£  MARY  MARES 

the  same  house  all  the  time  —  especially  if  it's 
been  anything  like  my  house  with  my  father  and 
mother  in  it! 

That's  why  I've  decided  to  make  a  book  of  it 
—  that  is,  it  really  will  be  a  book,  only  I  shall 
have  to  call  it  a  diary,  on  account  of  Father,  you 
know.  Won't  it  be  funny  when  I  don't  have  to 
do.  things  on  account  of  Father?  And  I  won't,  of 
course,  the  six  months  I'm  living  with  Mother 
in  Boston.  But,  oh,  my!  —  the  six  months  I'm 
living  here  with  him  —  whew!  But,  then,  I  can 
stand  it.  I  may  even  like  it  —  some.  Anyhow, 
It'll  be  different  And  that's  something. 

Well,  about  making  this  into  a  book.  As  I 
started  to  say,  he  would  n't  let  me.  I  know  he 
would  n't.  He  says  novels  are  a  silly  waste  of 
time,  if  not  absolutely  wicked.  But,  a  diary  — 
oh,  he  loves  diaries!  He  keeps  one  himself,  and 
he  told  me  it  would  be  an  excellent  and  instruc- 
tive discipline  for  me  to  do  it,  too  —  set  down 
the  weather  and  what  I  did  every  day. 

The  weather  and  what  I  did  every  day,  in- 
deed !  Lovely  reading  that  would  make,  would  n't 
it?  Like  this: 

"The  sun  shines  this  morning.  I  got  up,  ate 
my  breakfast,  went  to  school,  came  home,  ate 
my  dinner,  played  one  hour  over  to  Carrie  Hey- 
wood's,  practiced  on  the  piano  one  hour,  studied 
another  hour.  Talked  with  Mother  upstairs  in 


PREFACE  3 

her  room  about  the  sunset  and  the  snow  on  the 
trees.  Ate  my  supper.  Was  talked  to  by  Father 
down  in  the  library  about  improving  myself  and 
taking  care  not  to  be  light-minded  and  frivolous. 
(He  meant  like  Mother,  only  he  did  n't  say  it 
right  out  loud.  You  don't  have  to  say  some 
things  right  out  in  plain  words,  you  know.)  Then 
I  went  to  bed." 

Just  as  if  I  was  going  to  write  my  novel  like 
that!  Not  much  I  am.  But  I  shall  call  it  a  diary. 
Oh,  yes,  I  shall  call  it  a  diary  —  till  I  take  it  to 
be  printed.  Then  I  shall  give  it  its  true  name  — 
a  novel.  And  I'm  going  to  tell  the  printer  that 
I  Ve  left  it  for  him  to  make  the  spelling  right,  and 
put  in  all  those  tiresome  little  commas  and  pe- 
riods and  question  marks  that  everybody  seems 
to  make  such  a  fuss  about.  If  I  write  the  story 
part,  I  can't  be  expected  to  be  bothered  with 
looking  up  how  words  are  spelt,  every  five  min- 
utes, nor  fussing  over  putting  in  a  whole  lot  of 
foolish  little  dots  and  dashes. 

As  if  anybody  who  was  reading  the  story  cared 
for  that  part !  The  story 's  the  thing. 

I  love  stories.  I  've  written  lots  of  them  for  the 
girls,  too  —  little  short  ones,  I  mean;  not  a  long 
one  like  this  is  going  to  be,  of  course.  And  it'll 
be  so  exciting  to  be  living  a  story  instead  of 
reading  it  —  only  when  you  're  living  a  story  you 


4  MARY  MARIE 

can't  peek  over  to  the  back  to  see  how  it's  all 
coming  out.  I  shan't  like  that  part.  Still,  it  may 
be  all  the  more  exciting,  after  all,  not  to  know 
what  's  coming. 

I  like  love  stories  the  best.  Father's  got  —  oh, 
lots  of  books  in  the  library,  and  I  've  read  stacks 
of  them,  even  some  of  the  stupid  old  histories 
and  biographies.  I  had  to  read  them  when  there 
was  n't  anything  else  to  read.  But  there  were  n't 
many  love  stories.  Mother's  got  a  few,  though  — 
lovely  ones  —  and  some  books  of  poetry,  on  the 
little  shelf  in  her  room.  But  I  read  all  those  ages 
ago. 

That 's  why  I  'm  so  thrilled  over  this  new  one 
—  the  one  I  'm  living,  I  mean.  For  of  course  this 
will  be  a  love  story.  There  '11  be  my  love  story  in 
two  or  three  years,  when  I  grow  up,  and  while 
I'm  waiting  there's  Father's  and  Mother's. 

Nurse  Sarah  says  that  when  you're  divorced 
you're  free,  just  like  you  were  before  you  were 
married,  and  that  sometimes  they  marry  again. 
That  made  me  think  right  away:  what  if  Father 
or  Mother,  or  both  of  them,  married  again?  And 
I  should  be  there  to  see  it,  and  the  courting,  and 
all!  Wouldn't  that  be  some  love  story?  Well,  I 
just  guess! 

And  only  think  how  all  the  girls  would  envy 
me  —  and  they  just  living  along  their  humdrum, 
everyday  existence  with  fathers  and  mothers  al- 


PREFACE  5 

ready  married  and  living  together,  and  nothing 
exciting  to  look  forward  to.  For  really,  you  know, 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it,  there  aren't 
many  girls  that  have  got  the  chance  I  've  got. 

And  so  that 's  why  I  've  decided  to  write  it  into 
a  book.  Oh,  yes,  I  know  I'm  young  —  only  thir- 
teen. But  I  feel  really  awfully  old;  and  you  know 
a  woman  is  as  old  as  she  feels.  Besides,  Nurse 
Sarah  says  I  am  old  for  my  age,  and  that  it 's  no 
wonder,  the  kind  of  a  life  I  've  lived. 

And  maybe  that  is  so.  For  of  course  it  has  been 
different,  living  with  a  father  and  mother  that 
are  getting  ready  to  be  divorced  from  what  it 
would  have  been  living  with  the  loving,  happy- 
ever-after  kind.  Nurse  Sarah  says  it's  a  shame 
and  a  pity,  and  that  it 's  the  children  that  always 
suffer.  But  I  'm  not  suffering  —  not  a  mite.  I  'm 
just  enjoying  it.  It's  so  exciting. 

Of  course  if  I  was  going  to  lose  either  one,  it 
would  be  different.  But  I  'm  not,  for  I  am  to  live 
with  Mother  six  months,  then  with  Father. 

So  I  still  have  them  both.  And,  really,  when 
you  come  right  down  to  it,  I'd  rather  take  them 
separate  that  way.  Why,  separate  they're  just 
perfectly  all  right,  like  that  —  that  —  what- 
do-you-call-it  powder?  —  sedlitzer,  or  something 
like  that.  Anyhow,  it 's  that  white  powder  that 
you  mix  in  two  glasses,  and  that  looks  just  like 
water  till  you  put  them  together.  And  then,  oh, 


6  MARY  MARIE 

my!  such  a  fuss  and  fizz  and  splutter!  Well,  it's 
that  way  with  Father  and  Mother.  It'll  be  lots 
easier  to  take  them  separate,  I  know.  For  now 
I  can  be  Mary  six  months,  then  Marie  six 
months,  and  not  try  to  be  them  both  all  at  once, 
with  maybe  only  five  minutes  between  them. 

And  I  think  I  shall  love  both  Father  and 
Mother  better  separate,  too.  Of  course  I  love 
Mother,  and  I  know  I  'd  just  adore  Father  if  he  'd 
let  me  —  he 's  so  tall  and  fine  and  splendid,  when 
he's  out  among  folks.  All  the  girls  are  simply 
crazy  over  him.  And  I  am,  too.  Only,  at  home  — 
well,  it's  so  hard  to  be  Mary  always.  And  you 
see,  he  named  me  Mary  — 

But  I  must  n't  tell  that  here.  That's  part  of 
the  story,  and  this  is  only  the  Preface.  I  'm  going 
to  begin  it  to-morrow  —  the  real  story  —  Chap- 
ter One. 

But,  there  —  I  mustn't  call  it  a  "chapter" 
out  loud.  Diaries  don't  have  chapters,  and  this 
is  a  diary.  I  mustn't  forget  that  it's  a  diary. 
But  I  can  write  it  down  as  a  chapter,  for  it's 
going  to  be  a  novel,  after  it's  got  done  being  a 
diary. 


CHAPTER  I 

I  Am  Born 

The  sun  was  slowly  setting  in  the  west,  casting 
golden  beams  of  light  into  the  somber  old  room. 

That 's  the  way  it  ought  to  begin,  I  know,  and 
I  'd  like  to  do  it,  but  I  can't.  I  'm  beginning  with 
my  being  born,  of  course,  and  Nurse  Sarah  says 
the  sun  was  n't  shining  at  all.  It  was  night  and 
the  stars  were  out.  She  remembers  particularly 
about  the  stars,  for  Father  was  in  the  observa- 
tory, and  could  n't  be  disturbed.  (We  never  dis- 
turb Father  when  he 's  there,  you  know.)  And  so 
he  did  n't  even  know  he  had  a  daughter  until  the 
next  morning  when  he  came  out  to  breakfast. 
And  he  was  late  to  that,  for  he  stopped  to  write 
down  something  he  had  found  out  about  one  of 
the  consternations  in  the  night. 

He 's  always  finding  out  something  about  those 
old  stars  just  when  we  want  him  to  pay  attention 
to  something  else.  And,  oh,  I  forgot  to  say  that  I 
know  it  is  "constellation,"  and  not  "consterna- 
tion." But  I  used  to  call  them  that  when  I  was  a 
little  girl,  and  Mother  said  it  was  a  good  name 
for  them,  anyway,  for  they  were  a  consternation 
to  her  all  right.  Oh,  she  said  right  off  afterward 
that  she  did  n't  mean  that,  and  that  I  must  for- 


8  MARY  MARIE 

get  she  said  it.  Mother's  always  saying  that 
about  things  she  says. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Father  did  n't  know 
until  after  breakfast  that  he  had  a  little  daugh- 
ter. (We  never  tell  him  disturbing,  exciting  things 
just  before  meals.)  And  then  Nurse  told  him. 

I  asked  what  he  said,  and  Nurse  laughed  and 
gave  her  funny  little  shrug  to  her  shoulders. 

"Yes,  what  did  he  say,  indeed?"  she  retorted. 
"He  frowned,  looked  kind  of  dazed,  then  mut- 
tered: 'Well,  well,  upon  my  soul!  Yes,  to  be 
sure!'" 

Then  he  came  in  to  see  me. 

I  don't  know,  of  course,  what  he  thought  of  me, 
but  I  guess  he  did  n't  think  much  of  me,  from 
what  Nurse  said.  Of  course  I  was  very,  very- 
small,  and  I  never  yet  saw  a  little  bit  of  a  baby 
that  was  pretty,  or  looked  as  if  it  was  much  ac- 
count. So  maybe  you  could  n't  really  blame  him. 

Nurse  said  he  looked  at  me,  muttered,  "Well, 
well,  upon  my  soul!"  again,  and  seemed  really 
quite  interested  till  they  started  to  put  me  in  his 
arms.  Then  he  threw  up  both  hands,  backed  off, 
and  cried,  "Oh,  no,  no!"  He  turned  to  Mother 
and  hoped  she  was  feeling  pretty  well,  then  he 
got  out  of  the  room  just  as  quick  as  he  could.  And 
Nurse  said  that  was  the  end  of  it,  so  far  as  paying 
any  more  attention  to  me  was  concerned  for 
quite  a  while. 


I  AM  BORN  9 

He  was  much  more  interested  in  his  new  star 
than  he  was  in  his  new  daughter.  We  were  both 
born  the  same  night,  you  see,  and  that  star  was 
lots  more  consequence  than  I  was.  But,  then, 
that's  Father  all  over.  And  that's  one  of  the 
things,  I  think,  that  bothers  Mother.  I  heard 
her  say  once  to  Father  that  she  did  n't  see  why, 
when  there  were  so  many,  many  stars,  a  paltry 
one  or  two  more  need  to  be  made  such  a  fuss 
about.  And  I  don't,  either. 

But  Father  just  groaned,  and  shook  his  head, 
and  threw  up  his  hands,  and  looked  so  tired.  And 
that 's  all  he  said.  That 's  all  he  says  lots  of  times. 
But  it 's  enough.  It 's  enough  to  make  you  feel  so 
small  and  mean  and  insignificant  as  if  you  were 
just  a  little  green  worm  crawling  on  the  ground. 
Did  you  ever  feel  like  a  green  worm  crawling  on 
the  ground?  It 's  not  a  pleasant  feeling  at  all. 

Well,  now,  about  the  name.  Of  course  they  had 
to  begin  to  talk  about  naming  me  pretty  soon; 
and  Nurse  said  they  did  talk  a  lot.  But  they 
could  n't  settle  it.  Nurse  said  that  that  was  about 
the  first  thing  that  showed  how  teetotally  utterly 
they  were  going  to  disagree  about  things. 

Mother  wanted  to  call  me  Viola,  after  her 
mother,  and  Father  wanted  to  call  me  Abigail 
Jane  after  his  mother;  and  they  would  n't  either 
one  give  in  to  the  other.  Mother  was  sick  and 
nervous,  and  cried  a  lot  those  days,  and  she  used 


10  MARY  MARIE 

to  sob  out  that  if  they  thought  they  were  going 
to  name  her  darling  little  baby  that  awful  Abi- 
gail Jane,  they  were  very  much  mistaken;  that 
she  would  never  give  her  consent  to  it  —  never. 
Then  Father  would  say  in  his  cold,  stern  way: 
"Very  well,  then,  you  need  n't.  But  neither  shall 
I  give  my  consent  to  my  daughter's  being  named 
that  absurd  Viola.  The  child  is  a  human  being  — 
not  a  fiddle  in  an  orchestra!" 

And  that 's  the  way  it  went,  Nurse  said,  until 
everybody  was  just  about  crazy.  Then  somebody 
suggested  "Mary."  And  Father  said,  very  well, 
they  might  call  me  Mary;  and  Mother  said  cer- 
tainly, she  would  consent  to  Mary,  only  she 
should  pronounce  it  Marie.  And  so  it  was  settled. 
Father  called  me  Mary,  and  Mother  called  me 
Marie.  And  right  away  everybody  else  began  to 
call  me  Mary  Marie.  And  that's  the  way  it's 
been  ever  since. 

Of  course,  when  you  stop  to  think  of  it,  it 's 
sort  of  queer  and  funny,  though  naturally  I 
did  n't  think  of  it,  growing  up  with  it  as  I  did, 
and  always  having  it,  until  suddenly  one  day  it 
occurred  to  me  that  none  of  the  other  girls  had 
two  names,  one  for  their  father,  and  one  for  their 
mother  to  call  them  by.  I  began  to  notice  other 
things  then,  too.  Their  fathers  and  mothers 
did  n't  live  in  rooms  at  opposite  ends  of  the 
house.  Their  fathers  and  mothers  seemed  to  like 


I  AM  BORN  11 

each  other,  and  to  talk  together,  and  to  have  lit- 
tle jokes  and  laughs  together,  and  twinkle  with 
their  eyes.  That  is,  most  of  them  did. 

And  if  one  wanted  to  go  to  walk,  or  to  a  party, 
or  to  play  some  game,  the  other  did  n't  always 
look  tired  and  bored,  and  say,  "Oh,  very  well,  if 
you  like."  And  then  both  not  do  it,  whatever  it 
was.  That  is,  I  never  saw  the  other  girls'  fathers 
and  mothers  do  that  way;  and  I've  seen  quite  a 
lot  of  them,  too,  for  I  've  been  at  the  other  girls' 
houses  a  lot  for  a  long  time.  You  see,  I  don't  stay 
at  home  much,  only  when  I  have  to.  We  don't 
have  a  round  table  with  a  red  cloth  and  a  lamp  on 
it,  and  children  'round  it  playing  games  and  do- 
ing things,  and  fathers  and  mothers  reading  and 
mending.  And  it 's  lots  jollier  where  they  do  have 
them. 

Nurse  says  my  father  and  mother  ought  never 
to  have  been  married.  That 's  what  I  heard  her 
tell  our  Bridget  one  day.  So  the  first  chance  I  got 
I  asked  her  why,  and  what  she  meant. 

"Oh,  la!  Did  you  hear  that?"  she  demanded, 
with  the  quick  look  over  her  shoulder  that  she 
always  gives  when  she 's  talking  about  Father 
and  Mother.  "Well,  little  pitchers  do  have  big 
ears,  sure  enough!" 

"Little  pitchers,"  indeed!  As  if  I  did  n't  know 
what  that  meant !  I  'm  no  child  to  be  kept  in  the 
dark  concerning  things  I  ought  to  know.  And 


12  MARY  MARIE 

I  told  her  so,  sweetly  and  pleasantly,  but  with 
firmness  and  dignity.  I  made  her  tell  me  what  she 
meant,  and  I  made  her  tell  me  a  lot  of  other 
things  about  them,  too.  You  see,  I  'd  just  decided 
to  write  the  book,  so  I  wanted  to  know  every- 
thing she  could  tell  me.  I  did  n't  tell  her  about 
the  book,  of  course.  I  know  too  much  to  tell  se- 
crets to  Nurse  Sarah!  But  I  showed  my  excite- 
ment and  interest  plainly;  and  when  she  saw  how 
glad  I  was  to  hear  everything  she  could  tell,  she 
talked  a  lot,  and  really  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  too. 

You  see,  she  was  here  when  Mother  first  came 
as  a  bride,  so  she  knows  everything.  She  was  Fa- 
ther's nurse  when  he  was  a  little  boy;  then  she 
stayed  to  take  care  of  Father's  mother,  Grandma 
Anderson,  who  was  an  invalid  for  a  great  many 
years  and  who  did  n't  die  till  just  after  I  was 
born.  Then  she  took  care  of  me.  So  she 's  always 
been  in  the  family,  ever  since  she  was  a  young 
girl.  She 's  awfully  old  now  —  'most  sixty. 

First  I  found  out  how  they  happened  to  marry 
—  Father  and  Mother,  I  'm  talking  about  now  — 
only  Nurse  says  she  can't  see  yet  how  they  did 
happen  to  marry,  just  the  same,  they're  so  tee- 
totally  different. 

But  this  is  the  story. 

Father  went  to  Boston  to  attend  a  big  meeting 
of  astronomers  from  all  over  the  world,  and  they 
had  banquets    and  receptions  where  beautiful 


I  AM  BORN  13 

ladies  went  in  their  pretty  evening  dresses,  and 
my  mother  was  one  of  them.  (Her  father  was  one 
of  the  astronomers,  Nurse  said.)  The  meetings 
lasted  four  days,  and  Nurse  said  she  guessed  my 
father  saw  a  lot  of  my  mother  during  that  time. 
Anyhow,  he  was  invited  to  their  home,  and  he 
stayed  another  four  days  after  the  meetings  were 
over.  The  next  thing  they  knew  here  at  the  house, 
Grandma  Anderson  had  a  telegram  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married  to  Miss  Madge  Desmond, 
and  would  they  please  send  him  some  things  he 
wanted,  and  he  was  going  on  a  wedding  trip  and 
would  bring  his  bride  home  in  about  a  month. 

It  was  just  as  sudden  as  that.  And  surprising! 
—  Nurse  says  a  thunderclap  out  of  a  clear  blue 
sky  could  n't  have  astonished  them  more.  Father 
was  almost  thirty  years  old  at  that  time,  and  he'd 
never  cared  a  thing  for  girls,  nor  paid  them  the 
least  little  bit  of  attention.  So  they  supposed,  of 
course,  that  he  was  a  hopeless  old  bachelor  and 
would  n't  ever  marry.  He  was  bound  up  in  his 
stars,  even  then,  and  was  already  beginning  to 
be  famous,  because  of  a  comet  he'd  discovered. 
He  was  a  professor  in  our  college  here,  where  his 
father  had  been  president.  His  father  had  just 
died  a  few  months  before,  and  Nurse  said  maybe 
that  was  one  reason  why  Father  got  caught  in  the 
matrimonial  net  like  that.  (Those  are  her  words, 
not  mine.  The  idea  of  calling  my  mother  a  net! 


14  MARY  MARIE 

But  Nurse  never  did  half  appreciate  Mother.) 
But  Father  just  worshipped  his  father,  and  they 
were  always  together  —  Grandma  being  sick  so 
much;  and  so  when  he  died  my  father  was  nearly 
beside  himself,  and  that 's  one  reason  they  were  so 
anxious  he  should  go  to  that  meeting  in  Boston. 
They  thought  it  might  take  his  mind  off  himself, 
Nurse  said.  But  they  never  thought  of  its  put- 
ting his  mind  on  a  wife ! 

So  far  as  his  doing  it  right  up  quick  like  that 
was  concerned,  Nurse  said  that  was  n't  so  sur- 
prising. For  all  the  way  up,  if  Father  wanted 
anything  he  insisted  on  having  it,  and  having  it 
right  away  then.  He  never  wanted  to  wait  a  min- 
ute. So  when  he  found  a  girl  he  wanted,  he  wanted 
her  right  then,  without  waiting  a  minute.  He'd 
never  happened  to  notice  a  girl  he  wanted  before, 
you  see.  But  he'd  found  one  now,  all  right;  and 
Nurse  said  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  get  ready  for  her. 

There  was  n't  anybody  to  go  to  the  wedding. 
Grandma  Anderson  was  sick,  so  of  course  she 
could  n't  go,  and  Grandpa  was  dead,  so  of  course 
he  could  n't  go,  and  there  were  n't  any  brothers 
or  sisters,  only  Aunt  Jane  in  St.  Paul,  and  she 
was  so  mad  she  would  n't  come  on.  So  there  was 
no  chance  of  seeing  the  bride  till  Father  brought 
her  home. 

Nurse  said  they  wondered  and  wondered  what 


I  AM  BORN  15 

kind  of  a  woman  it  could  be  that  had  captured 
him.  (I  told  her  I  wished  she  would  nt  speak  of 
my  mother  as  if  she  was  some  kind  of  a  hunter 
out  after  game;  but  she  only  chuckled  and  said 
that's  about  what  it  amounted  to  in  some  cases.) 
The  very  idea ! 

The  whole  town  was  excited  over  the  affair, 
and  Nurse  Sarah  heard  a  lot  of  their  talk.  Some 
thought  she  was  an  astronomer  like  him.  Some 
thought  she  was  very  rich,  and  maybe  famous. 
Everybody  declared  she  must  know  a  lot,  any- 
way, and  be  wonderfully  wise  and  intellectual; 
and  they  said  she  was  probably  tall  and  wore 
glasses,  and  would  be  thirty  years  old,  at  least. 
But  nobody  guessed  anywhere  near  what  she 
really  was. 

Nurse  Sarah  said  she  should  never  forget  the 
night  she  came,  and  how  she  looked,  and  how 
utterly  flabbergasted  everybody  was  to  see  her 
—  a  little  slim  eighteen-year-old  girl  with  yellow 
curly  hair  and  the  merriest  laughing  eyes  they 
had  ever  seen.  (Don't  I  know?  Don't  I  just  love 
Mother's  eyes  when  they  sparkle  and  twinkle 
when  we're  off  together  sometimes  in  the  woods?) 
And  Nurse  said  Mother  was  so  excited  the  day 
she  came,  and  went  laughing  and  dancing  all 
over  the  house,  exclaiming  over  everything.  (I 
can't  imagine  that  so  well.  Mother  moves  so 
quietly  now,  everywhere,  and  is  so  tired,  'most 


16  MARY  MARIE 

all  the  time.)  But  she  was  n't  tired  then,  Nurse 
says  —  not  a  mite. 

"But  how  did  Father  act?"  I  demanded. 
"Wasn't  he  displeased  and  scandalized  and 
shocked,  and  everything?" 

Nurse  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  raised  her 
eyebrows  —  the  way  she  does  when  she  feels  par- 
ticularly superior.  Then  she  said : 

"Do?  What  does  any  old  fool  —  beggin'  your 
pardon  an'  no  offense  meant,  Miss  Mary  Marie 
—  but  what  does  any  man  do  what 's  got  bejug- 
gled  with  a  pretty  face,  an'  his  senses  completely 
took  away  from  him  by  a  chit  of  a  girl?  Well, 
that's  what  he  did.  He  acted  as  if  he  was  be- 
witched. He  followed  her  around  the  house  like 
a  dog  —  when  he  was  n't  leadin'  her  to  something 
new;  an'  he  never  took  his  eyes  off  her  face  ex- 
cept to  look  at  us,  as  much  as  to  say:  'Now  ain't 
she  the  adorable  creature?'" 

"My  father  did  that?"  I  gasped.  And,  really, 
you  know,  I  just  could  n't  believe  my  ears.  And 
you  would  n't,  either,  if  you  knew  Father.  "Why, 
I  never  saw  him  act  like  that ! " 

"No,  I  guess  you  didn't,"  laughed  Nurse 
Sarah  with  a  shrug.  "And  neither  did  anybody 
else  —  for  long." 

"But  how  long  did  it  last?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  a  month,  or  maybe  six  weeks,"  shrugged 
Nurse  Sarah.  "Then  it  came  September  and  col- 


I  AM  BORN  17 

lege  began,  and  your  father  had  to  go  back  to  his 
teaching.  Things  began  to  change  then." 

"  Right  then,  so  you  could  see  them?  "  I  wanted 
to  know. 

Nurse  Sarah  shrugged  her  shoulders  again. 

"Oh,  la!  child,  what  a  little  question-box  you 
are,  an'  no  mistake,"  she  sighed.  But  she  did  n't 
look  mad  —  not  like  the  way  she  does  when  I 
ask  why  she  can  take  her  teeth  out  and  most  of 
her  hair  off  and  I  can't;  and  things  like  that.  (As 
if  I  did  n't  know !  What  does  she  take  me  for  —  a 
child?)  She  did  n't  even  look  displeased  —  Nurse 
Sarah  loves  to  talk.  (As  if  I  did  n't  know  that, 
too !)  She  just  threw  that  quick  look  of  hers  over 
her  shoulder  and  settled  back  contentedly  in  her 
chair.  I  knew  then  I  should  get  the  whole  story. 
And  I  did.  And  I  'm  going  to  tell  it  here  in  her 
own  words,  just  as  well  as  I  can  remember  it  — 
bad  grammar  and  all.  So  please  remember  that  I 
am  not  making  all  those  mistakes.  It's  Nurse 
Sarah. 

I  guess,  though,  that  I'd  better  put  it  into  a 
new  chapter.  This  one  is  yards  long  already.  How 
do  they  tell  when  to  begin  and  end  chapters?  I'm 
thinking  it's  going  to  be  some  job,  writing  this 
book  —  diary,  I  mean.  But  I  shall  love  it,  I 
know.  And  this  is  a  real  story  —  not  like  those 
made-up  things  I  've  always  written  for  the  girls 
at  school. 


CHAPTER  II 

Nurse  Sarah's  Story 

And  this  is  Nurse  Sarah's  story. 

As  I  said,  I  'm  going  to  tell  it  straight  through 
as  near  as  I  can  in  her  own  words.  And  I  can  re- 
member most  of  it,  I  think,  for  I  paid  very  close 
attention. 

"Well,  yes,  Miss  Mary  Marie,  things  did  be- 
gin to  change  right  there  an'  then,  an'  so  you 
could  notice  it.  We  saw  it,  though  maybe  your 
pa  an'  ma  did  n't,  at  the  first. 

"You  see,  the  first  month  after  she  came,  it 
was  vacation  time,  an'  he  could  give  her  all  the 
time  she  wanted.  An'  she  wanted  it  all.  An'  she 
took  it.  An'  he  was  just  as  glad  to  give  it  as 
she  was  to  take  it.  An'  so  from  mornin'  till  night 
they  was  together,  traipsin'  all  over  the  house  an' 
garden,  an'  trampin'  off  through  the  woods  an' 
up  on  the  mountain  every  other  day  with  their 
lunch. 

"You  see  she  was  city-bred,  an'  not  used  to 
woods  an'  flowers  growin'  wild;  an'  she  went 
crazy  over  them.  He  showed  her  the  stars,  too, 
through  his  telescope;  but  she  had  n't  a  mite  of 
use  for  them,  an'  let  him  see  it  good  an'  plain. 


NURSE  SARAH'S  STORY  19 

She  told  him  —  I  heard  her  with  my  own  ears  — 
that  his  eyes,  when  they  laughed,  was  all  the 
stars  she  wanted;  an'  that  she'd  had  stars  all  her 
life  for  breakfast  an'  luncheon  an'  dinner,  any- 
way, an'  all  the  time  between;  an'  she'd  rather 
have  somethin'  else,  now  —  somethin'  alive,  that 
she  could  love  an'  live  with  an'  touch  an'  play 
with,  like  she  could  the  flowers  an'  rocks  an' 
grass  an'  trees. 

"Angry?  Your  pa?  Not  much  he  was!  He  just 
laughed  an'  caught  her  'round  the  waist  an' 
kissed  her,  an'  said  she  herself  was  the  brightest 
star  of  all.  Then  they  ran  off  hand  in  hand,  like 
two  kids.  An'  they  was  two  kids,  too.  All  through 
those  first  few  weeks  your  pa  was  just  a  great  big 
baby  with  a  new  plaything.  Then  when  college 
began  he  turned  all  at  once  into  a  full-grown 
man.  An'  just  naturally  your  ma  did  n't  know 
what  to  make  of  it. 

"He  could  n't  explore  the  attic  an'  rig  up  in  the 
old  clothes  there  any  more,  nor  romp  through 
the  garden,  nor  go  lunchin'  in  the  woods,  nor 
none  of  the  things  she  wanted  him  to  do.  He  did  n't 
have  time.  An'  what  made  things  worse,  one  of 
them  comet-tails  was  comin'  up  in  the  sky,  an' 
your  pa  did  n't  take  no  rest  for  watchin'  for  it, 
an'  then  studyin'  of  it  when  it  got  here. 

"An'  your  ma  —  poor  little  thing!  I  could  n't 
think  of  anything  but  a  doll  that  was  thrown  in 


20  MARY  MARIE 

the  corner  because  somebody  'd  got  tired  of  her. 
She  was  lonesome,  an'  no  mistake.  Anybody 'd 
be  sorry  for  her,  to  see  her  mopin'  'round  the 
house,  nothin'  to  do.  Oh,  she  read,  an'  sewed 
with  them  bright-colored  silks  an'  worsteds;  but 
'course  there  was  n't  no  real  work  for  her  to  do. 
There  was  good  help  in  the  kitchen,  an'  I  took 
what  care  of  your  grandma  was  needed;  an'  she 
always  gave  her  orders  through  me,  so  I  prac- 
tically run  the  house,  an'  there  was  n't  anything 
there  for  her  to  do. 

"An'  so  your  ma  just  had  to  mope  it  out  alone. 
Oh,  I  don't  mean  your  pa  was  unkind.  He  was 
always  nice  an'  polite,  when  he  was  in  the  house, 
an'  I  'm  sure  he  meant  to  treat  her  all  right.  He 
said  yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,  of  course  she  was  lone- 
some, an'  he  was  sorry.  'T  was  too  bad  he  was 
so  busy.  An'  he  kissed  her  an'  patted  her.  But  he 
always  began  right  away  to  talk  of  the  comet; 
an'  ten  to  one  he  did  n't  disappear  into  the  obser- 
vatory within  the  next  five  minutes.  Then  your 
ma  would  look  so  grieved  an'  sorry  an'  go  off  an' 
cry,  an'  maybe  not  come  down  to  dinner,  at  all. 
'  Well,  then,  one  day  things  got  so  bad  your 
grandma  took  a  hand.  She  was  up  an'  around  the 
house,  though  she  kept  mostly  to  her  own  rooms. 
But  of  course  she  saw  how  things  was  goin'.  Be- 
sides, I  told  her  —  some.  'T  was  no  more  than 
my  duty,  as  I  looked  at  it.  She  just  worshipped 


NURSE  SARAH'S  STORY  21 

your  pa,  an'  naturally  she'd  want  things  right 
for  him.  So  one  day  she  told  me  to  tell  her  son's 
wife  to  come  to  her  in  her  room. 

"An'  I  did,  an'  she  came.  Poor  little  thing!  I 
could  n't  help  bein'  sorry  for  her.  She  did  n't 
know  a  thing  of  what  was  wanted  of  her,  an'  she 
was  so  glad  an'  happy  to  come.  You  see,  she  was 
lonesome,  I  suppose. 

"'Me?  Want  me?  — Mother  Anderson?'  she 
cried.  'Oh,  I'm  so  glad!'  Then  she  made  it  worse 
by  runnin'  up  the  stairs  an'  bouncin'  into  the 
room  like  a  rubber  ball,  an'  cryin':  'Now,  what 
shall  I  do,  read  to  you,  or  sing  to  you,  or  shall  we 
play  games?  I 'd  love  to  do  any  of  them! '  Just  like 
that,  she  said  it.  I  heard  her.  Then  I  went  out,  of 
course,  an'  left  them.  But  I  heard  'most  every- 
thing that  was  said,  just  the  same,  for  I  was  right 
in  the  next  room  dustin',  and  the  door  was  n't 
quite  shut. 

"First  your  grandmother  said  real  polite  — 
she  was  always  polite  —  but  in  a  cold  little  voice 
that  made  even  me  shiver  in  the  other  room,  that 
she  did  not  desire  to  be  read  to  or  sung  to,  and 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  play  games.  She  had 
called  her  daughter-in-law  in  to  have  a  serious 
talk  with  her.  Then  she  told  her,  still  very  polite, 
that  she  was  noisy  an'  childish,  an'  undignified,  an' 
that  it  was  not  only  silly,  but  very  wrong  for  her 
to  expect  to  have  her  husband's  entire  attention; 


22  MARY  MARIE 

that  he  had  his  own  work,  an'  it  was  a  very  im- 
portant one.  He  was  going  to  be  president  of  the 
college  some  day,  like  his  father  before  him;  an' 
it  was  her  place  to  help  him  in  every  way  she 
could  —  help  him  to  be  popular  an'  well-liked 
by  all  the  college  people  an'  students;  an'  he 
could  n't  be  that  if  she  insisted  all  the  time  on 
keepin'  him  to  herself,  or  lookin'  sour  an'  cross 
if  she  could  n't  have  him. 

"Of  course  that  ain't  all  she  said;  but  I  re- 
member this  part  particular  on  account  of  what 
happened  afterward.  You  see  —  your  ma  —  she 
felt  awful  bad.  She  cried  a  little,  an'  sighed  a  lot, 
an'  said  she'd  try,  she  really  would  try  to  help 
her  husband  in  every  way  she  could;  an'  she 
would  n't  ask  him  another  once,  not  once,  to  stay 
with  her.  An'  she  would  n't  look  sour  an'  cross, 
either.  She'd  promise  she  wouldn't.  An'  she'd 
try,  she'd  try,  oh,  so  hard,  to  be  proper  an' 
dignified. 

"She  got  up  then  an'  went  out  of  the  room  so 
quiet  an'  still  you  would  n't  know  she  was  movin'. 
But  I  heard  her  up  in  her  room  cryin'  half  an 
hour  later,  when  I  stopped  a  minute  at  her  door 
to  see  if  she  was  there.  An'  she  was. 

"But  she  wasn't  cryin'  by  night.  Not  much 
she  was !  She  'd  washed  her  face  an'  dressed  herself 
up  as  pretty  as  could  be,  an'  she  never  so  much 
as  looked  as  if  she  wanted  her  husband  to  stay 


NURSE  SARAH'S  STORY  23 

with  her,  when  he  said  right  after  supper  that 
he  guessed  he  'd  go  out  to  the  observatory.  An' 
't  was  that  way  right  along  after  that.  I  know, 
'cause  I  watched.  You  see,  I  knew  what  she'd 
said  she'd  do.  Well,  she  did  it. 

"Then,  pretty  quick  after  that,  she  began  to 
get  acquainted  in  the  town.  Folks  called,  an' 
there  was  parties  an'  receptions  where  she  met 
folks,  an'  they  began  to  come  here  to  the  house, 
'specially  them  students,  an'  two  or  three  of 
them  young,  unmarried  professors.  An'  she  began 
to  go  out  a  lot  with  them  —  skatin'  an'  sleigh- 
ridin'  an'  snowshoein'. 

"Like  it?  Of  course  she  liked  it !  Who  would  n't? 
Why,  child,  you  never  saw  such  a  fuss  as  they 
made  over  your  ma  in  them  days.  She  was  all  the 
rage;  an'  of  course  she  liked  it.  What  woman 
would  n't,  that  was  gay  an'  lively  an'  young,  an' 
had  been  so  lonesome  like  your  ma  had?  But 
some  other  folks  did  n't  like  it.  An'  your  pa  was 
one  of  them.  This  time  't  was  him  that  made  the 
trouble.  I  know,  'cause  I  heard  what  he  said  one 
day  to  her  in  the  library. 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  was  in  the  next  room  that  day, 
too  —  er  —  dustin',  probably.  Anyway,  I  heard 
him  tell  your  ma  good  an'  plain  what  he  thought 
of  her  gallivantin'  'round  from  mornin'  till  night 
with  them  young  students  an'  professors,  an' 
havin'  them  here,  too,  such  a  lot,  till  the  house 


24  MARY  MARIE 

was  fairly  overrun  with  them.  He  said  he  was 
shocked  an'  scandalized,  an'  did  n't  she  have  any 
regard  for  his  honor  an'  decency,  if  she  did  n't 
for  herself !  An',  oh,  a  whole  lot  more. 

"Cry?  No,  your  ma  didn't  cry  this  time.  I 
met  her  in  the  hall  right  after  they  got  through 
talkin',  an'  she  was  white  as  a  sheet,  an'  her  eyes 
was  like  two  blazin'  stars.  So  I  know  how  she  must 
have  looked  while  she  was  in  the  library.  An'  I 
must  say  she  give  it  to  him  good  an'  plain,  straight 
from  the  shoulder.  She  told  him  she  was  shocked 
an'  scandalized  that  he  could  talk  to  his  wife  like 
that;  an'  did  n't  he  have  any  more  regard  for  her 
honor  an'  decency  than  to  accuse  her  of  runnin' 
after  any  man  living  —  much  less  a  dozen  of 
them!  An'  then  she  told  him  a  lot  of  what  his 
mother  had  said  to  her,  an'  she  said  she  had  been 
merely  tryin'  to  carry  out  those  instructions. 
She  was  tryin'  to  make  her  husband  an'  her  hus- 
band's wife  an'  her  husband's  home  popular  with 
the  college  folks,  so  she  could  help  him  to  be 
president,  if  he  wanted  to  be.  But  he  answered 
back,  cold  an'  chilly,  that  he  thanked  her,  of 
course,  but  he  did  n't  care  for  any  more  of  that 
kind  of  assistance;  an'  if  she  would  give  a  little 
more  time  to  her  home  an'  her  housekeepin',  as 
she  ought  to,  he  would  be  considerably  better 
pleased.  An'  she  said,  very  well,  she  would  see 
that  he  had  no  further  cause  to  complain.  An' 


NURSE  SARAH'S  STORY  25 

the  next  minute  I  met  her  in  the  hall,  as  I  just 
said,  her  head  high  an'  her  eyes  blazin'. 

"An'  things  did  change  then,  a  lot,  I'll  own. 
Right  away  she  began  to  refuse  to  go  out  with 
the  students  an'  young  professors,  an'  she  sent 
down  word  she  was  n't  to  home  when  they  called. 
And  pretty  quick,  of  course,  they  stopped  comin'. 

"  Housekeepin' ?  Attend  to  that?  Well,  y-yes, 
she  did  try  to  at  first,  a  little;  but  of  course  your 
grandma  had  always  given  the  orders  —  through 
me,  I  mean;  an'  there  really  wasn't  anything 
your  ma  could  do.  An'  I  told  her  so,  plain.  Her 
ways  were  new  an'  different  an'  queer,  an'  we 
liked  ours  better,  anyway.  So  she  did  n't  bother 
us  much  that  way  very  long.  Besides,  she  was  n't 
feelin'  very  well,  anyway,  an'  for  the  next  few 
months  she  stayed  in  her  room  a  lot,  an'  we  did 
n't  see  much  of  her.  Then  by  an'  by  you  came,  an' 
—  well,  I  guess  that 's  all  —  too  much,  you  little 
chatterbox!" 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Break  is  Made 

And  that's  the  way  Nurse  Sarah  finished  her 
story,  only  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  again,  and 
looked  back,  first  one  way,  then  another.  As  for 
her  calling  me  "chatterbox"  —  she  always  calls 
me  that  when  she  9s  been  doing  all  the  talking. 

As  near  as  I  can  remember,  I  have  told  Nurse 
Sarah's  story  exactly  as  she  told  it  to  me,  in  her 
own  words.  But  of  course  I  know  I  did  n't  get  it 
right  all  the  time,  and  I  know  I  've  left  out  quite 
a  lot.  But,  anyway,  it's  told  a  whole  lot  more 
than  /  could  have  told  why  they  got  married  in 
the  first  place,  and  it  brings  my  story  right  up  to 
the  point  where  I  was  born;  and  I  've  already  told 
about  naming  me,  and  what  a  time  they  had  over 
that. 

Of  course  what 's  happened  since,  up  to  now,  I 
don't  know  all  about,  for  I  was  only  a  child  for 
the  first  few  years.  Now  I  'm  almost  a  young  lady, 
"standing  with  reluctant  feet  where  the  brook 
and  river  meet."  (I  read  that  last  night.  I  think 
it 's  perfectly  beautiful.  So  kind  of  sad  and  sweet. 
It  makes  me  want  to  cry  every  time  I  think  of  it.) 
But  even  if  I  don't  know  all  of  what 's  happened 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  £7 

since  I  was  born,  I  know  a  good  deal,  for  I've 
seen  quite  a  lot,  and  I've  made  Nurse  tell  me  a 
lot  more. 

I  know  that  ever  since  I  can  remember  I've 
had  to  keep  as  still  as  a  mouse  the  minute  Father 
comes  into  the  house;  and  I  know  that  I  never 
could  imagine  the  kind  of  a  mother  that  Nurse 
tells  about,  if  it  was  n't  that  sometimes  when 
Father  has  gone  off  on  a  trip,  Mother  and  I 
have  romped  all  over  the  house,  and  had  the 
most  beautiful  time.  I  know  that  Father  says 
that  Mother  is  always  trying  to  make  me  a 
"  Marie,"  and  nothing  else;  and  that  Mother 
says  she  knows  Father '11  never  be  happy  un- 
til he's  made  me  into  a  stupid  little  "Mary," 
with  never  an  atom  of  life  of  my  own.  And,  do 
you  know?  it  does  seem  sometimes,  as  if  Mary 
and  Marie  were  fighting  inside  of  me,  and  I  won- 
der which  is  going  to  beat.  Funny,  is  n't  it? 

Father  is  president  of  the  college  now,  and  I 
don't  know  how  many  stars  and  comets  and 
things  he's  discovered  since  the  night  the  star 
and  I  were  born  together.  But  I  know  he 's  very 
famous,  and  that  he  's  written  up  in  the  papers 
and  magazines,  and  is  in  the  big  fat  red  "Who 's 
Who"  in  the  library,  and  has  lots  of  noted  men 
come  to  see  him. 

Nurse  says  that  Grandma  Anderson  died  very- 
soon  after  I  was  born,  but  that  it  did  n't  make 


28  MARY  MARIE 

any  particular  difference  in  the  housekeeping; 
for  things  went  right  on  just  as  they  had  done, 
with  her  giving  the  orders  as  before;  that  she'd 
given  them  all  alone  anyway,  mostly,  the  last 
year  Grandma  Anderson  lived,  and  she  knew 
just  how  Father  liked  things.  She  said  Mother 
tried  once  or  twice  to  take  the  reins  herself,  and 
once  Nurse  let  her,  just  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen. But  things  got  in  an  awful  muddle  right 
away,  so  that  even  Father  noticed  it  and  said 
things.  After  that  Mother  never  tried  again,  I 
guess.  Anyhow,  she 's  never  tried  it  since  I  can 
remember.  She 's  always  stayed  most  of  the  time 
up  in  her  rooms  in  the  east  wing,  except  during 
meals,  or  when  she  went  out  with  me,  or  went  to 
the  things  she  and  Father  had  to  go  to  together. 
For  they  did  go  to  lots  of  things,  Nurse  says. 

It  seems  that  for  a  long  time  they  did  n't  want 
folks  to  know  there  was  going  to  be  a  divorce.  So 
before  folks  they  tried  to  be  just  as  usual.  But 
Nurse  Sarah  said  she  knew  there  was  going  to  be 
one  long  ago.  The  first  I  ever  heard  of  it  was 
Nurse  telling  Nora,  the  girl  we  had  in  the  kitchen 
then;  and  the  minute  I  got  a  chance  I  asked 
Nurse  what  it  was  —  a  divorce. 

My,  I  can  remember  now  how  scared  she 
looked,  and  how  she  clapped  her  hand  over  my 
mouth.  She  would  n't  tell  me  —  not  a  word.  And 
that 's  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  give  that  quick 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  29 

little  look  over  each  shoulder.  She 's  done  it  lots 
of  times  since. 

As  I  said,  she  would  n't  tell  me,  so  I  had  to  ask 
some  one  else.  I  was  n't  going  to  let  it  go  by  and 
not  find  out  —  not  when  Nurse  Sarah  looked  so 
scared,  and  when  it  was  something  my  father  and 
mother  were  going  to  have  some  day. 

I  did  n't  like  to  ask  Mother.  Some  way,  I  had  a 
feeling,  from  the  way  Nurse  Sarah  looked,  that  it 
was  something  Mother  was  n't  going  to  like.  And 
I  thought  if  maybe  she  did  n't  know  yet  she  was 
going  to  have  it,  that  certainly  /  did  n't  want  to 
be  the  one  to  tell  her.  So  I  did  n't  ask  Mother 
what  a  divorce  was. 

I  did  n't  even  think  of  asking  Father,  of  course. 
I  never  ask  Father  questions.  Nurse  says  I  did 
ask  him  once  why  he  did  n't  love  me  like  other 
papas  loved  their  little  girls.  But  I  was  very  little 
then,  and  I  don't  remember  it  at  all.  But  Nurse 
said  Father  did  n't  like  it  very  well,  and  maybe 
I  did  remember  that  part,  without  really  knowing 
it.  Anyhow,  I  never  think  of  asking  Father  ques- 
tions. 

I  asked  the  doctor  first.  I  thought  maybe  't  was 
some  kind  of  a  disease,  and  if  he  knew  it  was 
coming,  he  could  give  them  some  sort  of  a  medi- 
cine to  keep  it  away  —  like  being  vaccinated 
so 's  not  to  have  smallpox,  you  know.  And  I  told 
him  so. 


30  MARY  MAREE 

He  gave  a  funny  little  laugh,  that  somehow 
did  n't  sound  like  a  laugh  at  all.  Then  he  grew 
very,  very  sober,  and  said : 

"I'm  sorry,  little  girl,  but  I 'm  afraid  I  have  n't 
got  any  medicine  that  will  prevent  —  a  divorce. 
If  I  did  have,  there  'd  be  no  eating  or  drinking  or 
sleeping  for  me,  I'm  thinking  —  I'd  be  so  busy 
answering  my  calls." 

"Then  it  is  a  disease!"  I  cried.  And  I  can  re- 
member just  how  frightened  I  felt.  "But  isn't 
there  any  doctor  anywhere  that  can  stop  it?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  gave  that  queer  little 
laugh  again. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  sighed.  "As  for  it's  being 
a  disease  —  there  are  people  that  call  it  a  disease, 
and  there  are  others  who  call  it  a  cure;  and  there 
are  still  others  who  say  it 's  a  remedy  worse  than 
the  disease  it  tries  to  cure.  But,  there,  you  baby ! 
What  am  I  saying?  Come,  come,  my  dear,  just 
forget  it.  It's  nothing  you  should  bother  your 
little  head  over  now.  Wait  till  you're  older." 

Till  I  'm  older,  indeed !  How  I  hate  to  have  folks 
talk  to  me  like  that !  And  they  do  —  they  do  it 
all  the  time.  As  if  I  was  a  child  now,  when  I'm 
almost  standing  there  where  the  brook  and  river 
meet! 

But  that  was  just  the  kind  of  talk  I  got,  every- 
where, nearly  every  time  I  asked  any  one  what 
a  divorce  was.  Some  laughed,  and  some  sighed. 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  31 

Some  looked  real  worried  'cause  I  'd  asked  it,  and 
one  got  mad.  (That  was  the  dressmaker.  I  found 
out  afterward  that  she'd  had  a  divorce  already, 
so  probably  she  thought  I  asked  the  question 
on  purpose  to  plague  her.)  But  nobody  would 
answer  me  —  really  answer  me  sensibly,  so  I  'd 
know  what  it  meant;  and  'most  everybody  said, 
"Run  away,  child,"  or  "You  shouldn't  talk  of 
such  things,"  or,  "Wait,  my  dear,  till  you're 
older";  and  all  that. 

Oh,  how  I  hate  such  talk  when  I  really  want 
to  know  something!  How  do  they  expect  us  to 
get  our  education  if  they  won't  answer  our  ques- 
tions? 

I  don't  know  which  made  me  angriest  —  I 
mean  angrier.  (I'm  speaking  of  two  things,  so  I 
must,  I  suppose.  I  hate  grammar !)  To  have  them 
talk  like  that  —  not  answer  me,  you  know  —  or 
have  them  do  as  Mr.  Jones,  the  storekeeper,  did, 
and  the  men  there  with  him. 

It  was  one  day  when  I  was  in  there  buying  some 
white  thread  for  Nurse  Sarah,  and  it  was  a  little 
while  after  I  had  asked  the  doctor  if  a  divorce 
was  a  disease.  Somebody  had  said  something  that 
made  me  think  you  could  buy  divorces,  and  I 
suddenly  determined  to  ask  Mr.  Jones  if  he  had 
them  for  sale.  (Of  course  all  this  sounds  very  silly 
to  me  now,  for  I  know  that  a  divorce  is  very  sim- 
ple and  very  common.  It's  just  like  a  marriage 


32  MARY  MARIE 

certificate,  only  it  unmarries  you  instead  of  mar- 
rying you;  but  I  did  n't  know  it  then.  And  if  I  'm 
going  to  tell  this  story  I've  got  to  tell  it  just  as 
it  happened,  of  course.) 

Well,  I  asked  Mr.  Jones  if  you  could  buy  di- 
vorces, and  if  he  had  them  for  sale;  and  you  ought 
to  have  heard  those  men  laugh.  There  were  six 
of  them  sitting  around  the  stove  behind  me. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  little  maid"  (above  all  things  I 
abhor  to  be  called  a  little  maid!)  one  of  them 
cried.  "You  can  buy  them  if  you've  got  money 
enough;  but  I  don't  reckon  our  friend  Jones  here 
has  got  them  for  sale." 

Then  they  all  laughed  again,  and  winked  at 
each  other.  (That 's  another  disgusting  thing  — 
winks  when  you  ask  a  perfectly  civil  question! 
But  what  can  you  do?  Stand  it,  that 's  all. 
There's  such  a  lot  of  things  we  poor  women 
have  to  stand!)  Then  they  quieted  down  and 
looked  very  sober  —  the  kind  of  sober  you  know 
is  faced  with  laughs  in  the  back  —  and  began  to 
tell  me  what  a  divorce  really  was.  I  can't  remem- 
ber them  all,  but  I  can  some  of  them.  Of  course 
I  understand  now  that  these  men  were  trying 
to  be  smart,  and  were  talking  for  each  other, 
not  for  me.  And  I  knew  it  then  —  a  little.  We 
know  a  lot  more  things  sometimes  than  folks 
think  we  do.  Well,  as  near  as  I  can  remember  it 
was  like  this : 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  33 

"A  divorce  is  a  knife  that  cuts  a  knot  that  had 
n't  ought  to  ever  been  tied,"  said  one. 

"A  divorce  is  a  jump  in  the  dark,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  No,  it  ain't.  It's  a  jump  from  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire,"  piped  up  Mr.  Jones. 

"A  divorce  is  the  comedy  of  the  rich  and  the 
tragedy  of  the  poor,"  said  a  little  man  who  wore 
glasses. 

"Divorce  is  a  nice  smushy  poultice  that  may 
help  but  won't  heal,"  cut  in  a  new  voice. 

"Divorce  is  a  guidepost  marked,  'Hell  to 
Heaven,'  but  lots  of  folks  miss  the  way,  just 
the  same,  I  notice,"  spoke  up  somebody  with  a 
chuckle. 

"Divorce  is  a  coward's  retreat  from  the  battle 
of  life."  Captain  Harris  said  this.  He  spoke  slow 
and  decided.  Captain  Harris  is  old  and  rich  and 
not  married.  He's  the  hotel's  star  boarder,  and 
what  he  says,  goes,  'most  always.  But  it  did  n't 
this  time.  I  can  remember  just  how  old  Mr.  Carl- 
ton snapped  out  the  next. 

"  Speak  from  your  own  experience,  Tom  Harris, 
an'  I  'm  thinkin'  you  ain't  fit  ter  judge.  I  tell  you 
divorce  is  what  three  fourths  of  the  husbands  an' 
wives  in  the  world  wish  was  waitin'  for  'em  at 
home  this  very  night.  But  it  ain't  there."  I  knew, 
of  course,  he  was  thinking  of  his  wife.  She  's  some 
cross,  I  guess,  and  has  two  warts  on  her  nose. 


34  MARY  MARIE 

There  was  more,  quite  a  lot  more,  said.  But 
I've  forgotten  the  rest.  Besides,  they  weren't 
talking  to  me  then,  anyway.  So  I  picked  up  my 
thread  and  slipped  out  of  the  store,  glad  to  es- 
cape. But,  as  I  said  before,  I  did  n't  find  many 
like  them. 

Of  course  I  know  now  —  what  divorce  is,  I 
mean.  And  it's  all  settled.  They  granted  us  some 
kind  of  a  decree  or  degree,  and  we're  going  to 
Boston  next  Monday. 

It's  been  awful,  though  —  this  last  year.  First 
we  had  to  go  to  that  horrid  place  out  West,  and 
stay  ages  and  ages.  And  I  hated  it.  Mother  did, 
too.  I  know  she  did.  I  went  to  school,  and  there 
were  quite  a  lot  of  girls  my  age,  and  some  boys; 
but  I  did  n't  care  much  for  them.  I  could  n't  even 
have  the  fun  of  surprising  them  with  the  divorce 
we  were  going  to  have.  I  found  they  were  going 
to  have  one,  too  —  every  last  one  of  them.  And 
when  everybody  has  a  thing,  you  know  there  's 
no  particular  fun  in  having  it  yourself.  Besides, 
they  were  very  unkind  and  disagreeable,  and 
bragged  a  lot  about  their  divorces.  They  said 
mine  was  tame,  and  had  no  sort  of  snap  to  it, 
when  they  found  Mother  did  n't  have  a  lover 
waiting  in  the  next  town,  or  Father  had  n't  run 
off  with  his  stenographer,  or  nobody  had  shot 
anybody,  or  anything. 

That  made  me  mad,  and  I  let  them  see  it,  good 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  35 

and  plain.  I  told  them  our  divorce  was  perfectly 
all  right  and  genteel  and  respectable;  that  Nurse 
Sarah  said  it  was.  Ours  was  going  to  be  incom- 
patibility, for  one  thing,  which  meant  that  you 
got  on  each  other's  nerves,  and  just  naturally 
did  n't  care  for  each  other  any  more.  But  they 
only  laughed,  and  said  even  more  disagreeable 
things,  so  that  I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  school  any 
longer,  and  I  told  Mother  so,  and  the  reason,  too, 
of  course. 

But,  dear  me,  I  wished  right  off  that  I  had 
n't.  I  supposed  she  was  going  to  be  superb  and 
haughty  and  disdainful,  and  say  things  that 
would  put  those  girls  where  they  belonged.  But, 
my  stars !  How  could  I  know  that  she  was  going 
to  burst  into  such  a  storm  of  sobs  and  clasp  me 
to  her  bosom,  and  get  my  face  all  wet  and  cry 
out:  "Oh,  my  baby,  my  baby  —  to  think  I  have 
subjected  you  to  this,  my  baby,  my  baby!" 

And  I  could  n't  say  a  thing  to  comfort  her,  or 
make  her  stop,  even  when  I  told  her  over  and 
over  again  that  I  was  n't  a  baby.  I  was  almost  a 
young  lady;  and  I  was  n't  being  subjected  to 
anything  bad.  I  liked  it  —  only  I  did  n't  like  to 
have  those  girls  brag  so,  when  our  divorce  was 
away  ahead  of  theirs,  anyway. 

But  she  only  cried  more  and  more,  and  held 
me  tighter  and  tighter,  rocking  back  and  forth 
in  her  chair.  She  took  me  out  of  school,  though, 


36  MARY  MARIE 

and  had  a  lady  come  to  teach  me  all  by  myself, 
so  I  didn't  have  to  hear  those  girls  brag  any 
more,  anyway.  That  was  better.  But  she  was  n't 
any  happier  herself.  I  could  see  that. 

There  were  lots  of  other  ladies  there  —  beauti- 
ful ladies  —  only  she  did  n't  seem  to  like  them 
any  better  than  I  did  the  girls.  I  wondered  if 
maybe  they  bragged,  too,  and  I  asked  her;  but 
she  only  began  to  cry  again,  and  moan,  "What 
have  I  done,  what  have  I  done?"  —  and  I  had 
to  try  all  over  again  to  comfort  her.  But  I 
could  n't. 

She  got  so  she  just  stayed  in  her  room  lots  and 
lots.  I  tried  to  make  her  put  on  her  pretty  clothes, 
and  do  as  the  other  ladies  did,  and  go  out  and 
walk  and  sit  on  the  big  piazzas,  and  dance,  and 
eat  at  the  pretty  little  tables.  She  did,  some, 
when  we  first  came,  and  took  me,  and  I  just  loved 
it.  They  were  such  beautiful  ladies,  with  their 
bright  eyes,  and  their  red  cheeks  and  jolly  ways; 
and  their  dresses  were  so  perfectly  lovely,  all  silks 
and  satins  and  sparkly  spangles,  and  diamonds 
and  rubies  and  emeralds,  and  silk  stockings,  and 
little  bits  of  gold  and  silver  slippers. 

And  once  I  saw  two  of  them  smoking.  They 
had  the  cutest  little  cigarettes  (Mother  said  they 
were)  in  gold  holders,  and  I  knew  then  that  I  was 
seeing  life  —  real  life;  not  the  stupid  kind  you 
get  back  in  a  country  town  like  Andersonville. 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  37 

And  I  said  so  to  Mother;  and  I  was  going  to  ask 
her  if  Boston  was  like  that.  But  I  did  n't  get  the 
chance.  She  jumped  up  so  quick  I  thought  some- 
thing had  hurt  her,  and  cried,  "  Good  Heavens, 
Baby!"  (How  I  hate  to  be  called  "Baby"!)  Then 
she  just  threw  some  money  on  to  the  table  to  pay 
the  bill  and  hurried  me  away. 

It  was  after  that  that  she  began  to  stay  in  her 
room  so  much,  and  not  take  me  anywhere  except 
for  walks  at  the  other  end  of  the  town  where  it 
was  all  quiet  and  stupid,  and  no  music  or  lights, 
or  anything.  And  though  I  teased  and  teased  to 
go  back  to  the  pretty,  jolly  places,  she  would  n't 
ever  take  me;  not  once. 

Then  by  and  by,  one  day,  we  met  a  little  black- 
haired  woman  with  white  cheeks  and  very  big 
sad  eyes.  There  were  n't  any  spangly  dresses  and 
gold  slippers  about  her,  I  can  tell  you!  She  was 
crying  on  a  bench  in  the  park,  and  Mother  told 
me  to  stay  back  and  watch  the  swans  while  she 
went  up  and  spoke  to  her.  (Why  do  old  folks 
always  make  us  watch  swans  or  read  books  or 
look  into  store  windows  or  run  and  play  all  the 
time?  Don't  they  suppose  we  understand  per- 
fectly well  what  it  means  —  that  they  're  going 
to  say  something  they  don't  want  us  to  hear?) 
Well,  Mother  and  the  lady  on  the  bench  talked 
and  talked  ever  so  long,  and  then  Mother  called 
me  up,  and  the  lady  cried  a  little  over  me,  and 


38  MARY  MARIE 

said,  "Now,  perhaps,  if  I'd  had  a  little  girl  like 
that — !"  Then  she  stopped  and  cried  some 
more. 

We  saw  this  lady  real  often  after  that.  She  was 
nice  and  pretty  and  sweet,  and  I  liked  her;  but 
she  was  always  awfully  sad,  and  I  don't  believe 
it  was  half  so  good  for  Mother  to  be  with  her  as 
it  would  have  been  for  her  to  be  with  those  jolly, 
laughing  ladies  that  were  always  having  such 
good  times.  But  I  could  n't  make  Mother  see  it 
that  way  at  all.  There  are  times  when  it  seems  as 
if  Mother  just  could  n't  see  things  the  way  I  do. 
Honestly,  it  seems  sometimes  almost  as  if  she  was 
the  cross-current  and  contradiction  instead  of  me. 
It  does. 

Well,  as  I  said  before,  I  did  n't  like  it  very  well 
out  there,  and  I  don't  believe  Mother  did,  either. 
But  it 's  all  over  now,  and  we  're  back  home  pack- 
ing up  to  go  to  Boston. 

Everything  seems  awfully  queer.  Maybe  be- 
cause Father  is  n't  here,  for  one  thing.  He  wrote 
very  polite  and  asked  us  to  come  to  get  our  things, 
and  he  said  he  was  going  to  New  York  on  busi- 
ness for  several  days,  so  Mother  need  not  fear 
he  should  annoy  her  with  his  presence.  Then, 
another  thing,  Mother's  queer.  This  morning 
she  was  singing  away  at  the  top  of  her  voice  and 
running  all  over  the  house  picking  up  things  she 
wanted;  and  seemed  so  happy.  But  this  after- 


THE  BREAK  IS  MADE  39 

noon  I  found  her  down  on  the  floor  in  the  library 
crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break  with  her  head 
in  Father's  big  chair  before  the  fireplace.  But  she 
jumped  up  the  minute  I  came  in  and  said,  no,  no, 
she  did  n't  want  anything.  She  was  just  tired; 
that 's  all.  And  when  I  asked  her  if  she  was  sorry, 
after  all,  that  she  was  going  to  Boston  to  live, 
she  said,  no,  no,  no,  indeed,  she  guessed  she 
was  n't.  She  was  just  as  glad  as  glad  could  be  that 
she  was  going,  only  she  wished  Monday  would 
hurry  up  and  come  so  we  could  be  gone. 

And  that 's  all.  It 's  Saturday  now,  and  we  go 
just  day  after  to-morrow.  Our  trunks  are  'most 
packed,  and  Mother  says  she  wishes  she'd 
planned  to  go  to-day.  I've  said  good-bye  to  all 
the  girls,  and  promised  to  write  loads  of  letters 
about  Boston  and  everything.  They  are  almost  as 
excited  as  I  am;  and  I've  promised,  "cross  my 
heart  and  hope  to  die,"  that  I  won't  love  those 
Boston  girls  better  than  I  do  them  —  specially 
Carrie  Heywood,  of  course,  my  dearest  friend. 

Nurse  Sarah  is  hovering  around  everywhere, 
asking  to  help,  and  pretending  she 's  sorry  we  're 
going.  But  she  is  n't  sorry.  She 's  glad.  I  know 
she  is.  She  never  did  appreciate  Mother,  and 
she  thinks  she'll  have  everything  her  own  way 
now.  But  she  won't.  I  could  tell  her  a  thing  or 
two  if  I  wanted  to.  But  I  shan't. 

Father's  sister,  Aunt  Jane  Anderson,  from  St. 


40  MARY  MARIE 

Paul,  is  coming  to  keep  house  for  him,  partly  on 
account  of  Father,  and  partly  on  account  of  me. 
"If  that  child  is  going  to  be  with  her  father  six 
months  of  the  time,  she's  got  to  have  some 
woman  there  beside  a  meddling  old  nurse  and  a 
nosey  servant  girl!"  They  did  n't  know  I  heard 
that.  But  I  did.  And  now  Aunt  Jane  is  coming. 
My !  how  mad  Nurse  Sarah  would  be  if  she  knew. 
But  she  does  n't. 

I  guess  I'll  end  this  chapter  here  and  begin  a 
fresh  one  down  in  Boston.  Oh,  I  do  so  wonder 
what  it'll  be  like  —  Boston,  Mother's  home, 
Grandpa  Desmond,  and  all  the  rest.  I'm  so  ex- 
cited I  can  hardly  wait.  You  see,  Mother  never 
took  me  home  with  her  but  once,  and  then  I  was 
a  very  small  child.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  guess 
Father  did  n't  want  me  to  go.  It 's  safe  to  say  he 
did  n't,  anyway.  He  never  wants  me  to  do  any- 
thing, hardly.  That 's  why  I  suspect  him  of  not 
wanting  me  to  go  down  to  Grandpa  Desmond's. 
And  Mother  did  n't  go  only  once,  in  ages. 

Now  this  will  be  the  end.  And  when  I  begin 
again  it  will  be  in  Boston.  Only  think  of  it  — 
really,  truly  Boston! 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  I  am  Marie 

Boston. 

Yes,  I  'm  here.  I  've  been  here  a  week.  But  this 
is  the  first  minute  I've  had  a  chance  to  write  a 
word.  I've  been  so  busy  just  being  here.  And  so 
has  Mother.  There's  been  such  a  lot  going  on 
since  we  came.  But  I'll  try  now  to  begin  at  the 
beginning  and  tell  what  happened. 

Well,  first  we  got  into  Boston  at  four  o'clock 
Monday  afternoon,  and  there  was  Grandpa  Des- 
mond to  meet  us.  He  's  lovely — tall  and  dignified, 
with  grayish  hair  and  merry  eyes  like  Mother's, 
only  his  are  behind  glasses.  At  the  station  he 
just  kissed  Mother  and  me  and  said  he  was  glad 
to  see  us,  and  led  us  to  the  place  where  Peter  was 
waiting  with  the  car.  (Peter  drives  Grandpa's 
automobile,  and  he  's  lovely,  too.) 

Mother  and  Grandpa  talked  very  fast  and  very 
lively  all  the  way  home,  and  Mother  laughed 
quite  a  lot.  But  in  the  hall  she  cried  a  little,  and 
Grandpa  patted  her  shoulder,  and  said,  "There, 
there!"  and  told  her  how  glad  he  was  to  get  his 
little  girl  back,  and  that  they  were  going  to 
be  very  happy  now  and  forget  the  past.  And 


42  MARY  MARIE 

Mother  said,  yes,  yes,  indeed,  she  knew  she  was; 
and  she  was  so  glad  to' be  there,  and  that  every- 
thing was  going  to  be  just  the  same,  was  n't  it? 
Only  —  then,  all  of  a  sudden  she  looked  over  at 
me  and  began  to  cry  again  —  only,  of  course, 
things  could  n't  be  "just  the  same,"  she  choked, 
hurrying  over  to  me  and  putting  both  arms 
around  me,  and  crying  harder  than  ever. 

Then  Grandpa  came  and  hugged  us  both,  and 
patted  us,  and  said,  "There,  there!"  and  pulled 
off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them  very  fast  and  very 
hard. 

But  it  was  n't  only  a  minute  or  two  before 
Mother  was  laughing  again,  and  saying,  "Non- 
sense!" and  "The  idea!"  and  that  this  was  a 
pretty  way  to  introduce  her  little  Marie  to  her 
new  home!  Then  she  hurried  me  to  the  dearest 
little  room  I  ever  saw,  right  out  of  hers,  and  took 
off  my  things.  Then  we  went  all  over  the  house. 
And  it 's  just  as  lovely  as  can  be  —  not  at  all  like 
Father's  in  Andersonville. 

Oh,  Father's  is  fine  and  big  and  handsome,  and 
all  that,  of  course;  but  not  like  this.  His  is  just  a 
nice  place  to  eat  and  sleep  in,  and  go  to  when  it 
rains.  But  this  —  this  you  just  want  to  live  in  all 
the  time.  Here  there  are  curtains  'way  up  and 
sunshine,  and  flowers  in  pots,  and  magazines,  and 
cozy  nooks  with  cushions  everywhere;  and  books 
that  you've  just  been  reading  laid  down.  (All 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  43 

Father 's  books  are  in  bookcases,  always,  except 
while  one  's  in  your  hands  being  read.) 

Grandpa's  other  daughter,  Mother's  sister, 
Hattie,  lives  here  and  keeps  house  for  Grandpa. 
She  has  a  little  boy  named  Lester,  six  years  old; 
and  her  husband  is  dead.  They  were  away  for 
what  they  called  a  week-end  when  we  came,  but 
they  got  here  a  little  after  we  did  Monday  after- 
noon; and  they're  lovely,  too. 

The  house  is  a  straight-up-and-down  one  with 
a  back  and  front,  but  no  sides  except  the  one 
snug  up  to  you  on  the  right  and  left.  And  there 
is  n't  any  yard  except  a  little  bit  of  a  square 
brick  one  at  the  back  where  they  have  clothes 
and  ash  barrels,  and  a  little  grass  spot  in  front  at 
one  side  of  the  steps,  not  big  enough  for  our  old 
cat  to  take  a  nap  in,  hardly.  But  it 's  perfectly 
lovely  inside;  and  it 's  the  insides  of  houses  that 
really  count  just  as  it  is  the  insides  of  people  — 
their  hearts,  I  mean;  whether  they're  good  and 
kind,  or  hateful  and  disagreeable. 

We  have  dinner  at  night  here,  and  I  've  been  to 
the  theater  twice  already  in  the  afternoon.  I've 
got  to  go  to  school  next  week,  Mother  says,  but 
so  far  I've  just  been  having  a  good  time.  And 
so  's  Mother.  Honestly,  it  has  just  seemed  as  if 
Mother  could  n't  crowd  the  days  full  enough. 
She  has  n't  been  still  a  minute. 

Lots  of  her  old  friends  have  been  to  see  her; 


44  MARY  MARIE 

and  when  there  has  n't  been  anybody  else  around 
she 's  taken  Peter  and  had  him  drive  us  all  over 
Boston  to  see  things; — -all  kinds  of  things; 
Bunker  Hill  and  museums,  and  moving  pictures, 
and  one  play. 

But  we  did  n't  stay  at  the  play.  It  started  out 
all  right,  but  pretty  soon  a  man  and  a  woman  on 
the  stage  began  to  quarrel.  They  were  married 
(not  really,  but  in  the  play,  I  mean),  and  I  guess 
it  was  some  more  of  that  incompatibility  stuff. 
Anyhow,  as  they  began  to  talk  more  and  more, 
Mother  began  to  fidget,  and  pretty  soon  I  saw 
she  was  gathering  up  our  things;  and  the  minute 
the  curtain  went  down  after  the  first  act,  she  says : 

"Come,  dear,  we're  going  home.  It  —  it  is  n't 
very  warm  here." 

As  if  I  did  n't  know  what  she  was  really  leaving 
for!  Do  old  folks  honestly  think  they  are  fooling 
us  all  the  time,  I  wonder?  But  even  if  I  had  n't 
known  then,  I'd  have  known  it  later,  for  that 
evening  I  heard  Mother  and  Aunt  Hattie  talking 
in  the  library. 

No,  I  did  n't  listen.  I  heard.  And  that 's  a  very 
different  matter.  You  listen  when  you  mean  to, 
and  that 's  sneaking.  You  hear  when  you  can't 
help  yourself,  and  that  you  can't  be  blamed  for. 
Sometimes  it's  your  good  luck,  and  sometimes 
it's  your  bad  luck  —  just  according  to  what 
you  hear! 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  45 

Well,  I  was  in  the  window-seat  in  the  library- 
reading  when  Mother  and  Aunt  Hattie  came  in; 
and  Mother  was  saying: 

"Of  course  I  came  out!  Do  you  suppose  I'd 
have  had  that  child  see  that  play,  after  I  realized 
what  it  was?  As  if  she  has  n't  had  enough  of  such 
wretched  stuff  already  in  her  short  life!  Oh, 
Hattie,  Hattie,  I  want  that  child  to  laugh,  to 
sing,  to  fairly  tingle  with  the  joy  of  living  every 
minute  that  she  is  with  me.  I  know  so  well  what 
she  has  had,  and  what  she  will  have  —  in  that 
—  tomb.  You  know  in  six  months  she  goes 
back  —  " 

Mother  saw  me  then,  I  know;  for  she  stopped 
right  off  short,  and  after  a  moment  began  to  talk 
of  something  else,  very  fast.  And  pretty  quick 
they  went  out  into  the  hall  again. 

Dear  little  Mother!  Bless  her  old  heart!  Is  n't 
she  the  ducky  dear  to  want  me  to  have  all  the 
good  times  possible  now  so  as  to  make  up  for  the 
six  months  I've  got  to  be  with  Father?  You  see, 
she  knows  what  it  is  to  live  with  Father  even 
better  than  I  do. 

Well,  I  guess  she  does  n't  dread  it  for  me  any 
more  than  I  do  for  myself.  Still,  I'll  have  the 
girls  there,  and  I  'm  dying  to  see  them  again  — 
and  I  won't  have  to  stay  home  much,  only  nights 
and  meals,  of  course,  and  Father 's  always  pretty 
busy  with  his   stars   and  comets  and  things. 


46  MARY  MARIE 

Besides,  it 's  only  for  six  months,  then  I  can 
come  back  to  Boston.  I  can  keep  thinking  of 
that. 

But  I  know  now  why  I  've  been  having  such  a 
perfectly  beautiful  time  all  this  week,  and  why 
Mother  has  been  filling  every  minute  so  full  of 
fun  and  good  times.  Why,  even  when  we're  at 
home  here,  she 's  always  hunting  up  little  Lester 
and  getting  him  to  have  a  romp  with  us. 

But  of  course  next  week  I've  got  to  go  to 
school,  and  it  can't  be  quite  so  jolly  then.  Well,  I 
guess  that 's  all  for  this  time. 

About  a  month  later. 

I  did  n't  make  a  chapter  of  that  last.  It  was  n't 
long  enough.  And,  really,  I  don't  know  as  I've 
got  much  to  add  to  it  now.  There 's  nothing  much 
happened. 

I  go  to  school  now,  and  don't  have  so  much 
time  for  fun.  School  is  pretty  good,  and  there 
are  two  or  three  girls  'most  as  nice  as  the  ones 
at  Andersonville.  But  not  quite.  Out  of  school 
Mother  keeps  things  just  as  lively  as  ever,  and 
we  have  beautiful  times.  Mother  is  having  a 
lovely  time  with  her  own  friends,  too.  Seems  as 
if  there  is  always  some  one  here  when  I  get  home, 
and  lots  of  times  there  are  teas  and  parties,  and 
people  to  dinner. 

There  are  gentlemen,  too.  I  suppose  one  of 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  47 

them  will  be  Mother's  lover  by  and  by;  but  of 
course  I  don't  know  which  one  yet.  I  'm  awfully 
interested  in  them,  though.  And  of  course  it 's 
perfectly  natural  that  I  should  be.  Would  n't  you 
be  interested  in  the  man  that  was  going  to  be 
your  new  father?  Well,  I  just  guess  you  would! 
Anybody  would.  Why,  most  folks  have  only  one 
father,  you  know,  and  they  have  to  take  that  one 
just  as  he  is;  and  it's  all  a  matter  of  chance 
whether  they  get  one  that 's  cross  or  pleasant;  or 
homely  or  fine  and  grand-looking;  or  the  com- 
mon kind  you  can  hug  and  kiss  and  hang  round 
his  neck,  or  the  stand-off  -don'  t-touch-me-I- 
must  n't-be-disturbed  kind  like  mine.  I  mean  the 
one  I  did  have.  But,  there !  that  does  n't  sound 
right,  either;  for  of  course  he 's  still  my  father 
just  the  same,  only  —  well,  he  is  n't  Mother's 
husband  any  more,  so  I  suppose  he 's  only  my 
father  by  order  of  the  court,  same  as  I'm  his 
daughter. 

Well,  anyhow,  he 's  the  father  I  've  grown  up 
with,  and  of  course  I'm  used  to  him  now.  And 
it's  an  altogether  different  matter  to  think  of 
having  a  brand-new  father  thrust  upon  you,  all 
ready-made,  as  you  might  say,  and  of  course  I  am 
interested.  There  's  such  a  whole  lot  depends  on 
the  father.  Why,  only  think  how  different  things 
would  have  been  at  home  if  my  father  had  been 
different!  There  were  such  a  lot  of  things  I  had  to 


48  MARY  MARIE 

be  careful  not  to  do  —  and  just  as  many  I  had  to 
be  careful  to  do  —  on  account  of  Father. 

And  so  now,  when  I  see  all  these  nice  young 
gentlemen  (only  they  are  n't  all  young;  some  of 
them  are  quite  old)  coming  to  the  house  and 
talking  to  Mother,  and  hanging  over  the  back  of 
her  chair,  and  handing  her  tea  and  little  cakes,  I 
can't  help  wondering  which,  if  any,  is  going  to  be 
her  lover  and  my  new  father.  And  I  am  also  won- 
dering what  I'll  have  to  do  on  account  of  him 
when  I  get  him,  if  I  get  him. 

There  are  quite  a  lot  of  them,  and  they're  all 
different.  They'd  make  very  different  kinds  of 
fathers,  I  'm  sure,  and  I  'm  afraid  I  would  n't  like 
some  of  them.  But,  after  all,  it 's  Mother  that 
ought  to  settle  which  to  have  —  not  me.  She 's  the 
one  to  be  pleased.  'T  would  be  such  a  pity  to  have 
to  change  again.  Though  she  could,  of  course, 
same  as  she  did  Father,  I  suppose. 

As  I  said,  they're  all  different.  There  are  only 
two  that  are  anywhere  near  alike,  and  they  are  n't 
quite  the  same,  for  one 's  a  lawyer  and  the  other 's 
in  a  bank.  But  they  both  carry  canes  and  wear 
tall  silk  hats,  and  part  their  hair  in  the  middle, 
and  look  at  you  through  the  kind  of  big  round 
eyeglasses  with  dark  rims  that  would  make  you 
look  awfully  homely  if  they  did  n't  make  you 
look  so  stylish.  But  I  don't  think  Mother  cares 
very  much  for  either  the  lawyer  or  the  bank  man, 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  49 

and  I  'm  glad.  I  would  n't  like  to  live  with  those 
glasses  every  day,  even  if  they  are  stylish.  I'd 
much  rather  have  Father's  kind. 

Then  there  's  the  man  that  paints  pictures. 
He 's  tall  and  slim,  and  wears  queer  ties  and  long 
hair.  He 's  always  standing  back  and  looking  at 
things  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  exclaiming 
"Oh!"  and  "Ah!"  with  a  long  breath.  He  says 
Mother's  coloring  is  wonderful.  I  heard  him.  And 
I  did  n't  like  it  very  well,  either.  Why,  it  sounded 
as  if  she  put  it  on  herself  out  of  a  box  on  her 
bureau,  same  as  some  other  ladies  do !  Still,  he  's 
not  so  bad,  maybe;  though  I  'm  not  sure  but  what 
his  paints  and  pictures  would  be  just  as  tiresome 
to  live  with  as  Father's  stars,  when  it  came  right 
down  to  wanting  a  husband  to  live  with  you  and 
talk  to  you  every  day  in  the  year.  You  know  you 
have  to  think  of  such  things  when  it  comes  to 
choosing  a  new  father  —  I  mean  a  new  husband. 
(I  keep  forgetting  that  it 's  Mother  and  not  me 
that 's  doing  the  choosing.) 

Well,  to  resume  and  go  on.  There  's  the  violin- 
ist. I  must  n't  forget  him.  But,  then,  nobody 
could  forget  him.  He  's  lovely:  so  handsome  and 
distinguished-looking  with  his  perfectly  beauti- 
ful dark  eyes  and  white  teeth.  And  he  plays  — 
well,  I'm  simply  crazy  over  his  playing.  I  only 
wish  Carrie  Heywood  could  hear  him.  She  thinks 
her  brother  can  play.  He  's  a  traveling  violinist 


50  MARY  MARIE 

with  a  show;  and  he  came  home  once  to  Ander- 
sonville.  And  I  heard  him.  But  he 's  not  the  real 
thing  at  all.  Not  a  bit.  Why,  he  might  be  anybody, 
our  grocer,  or  the  butcher,  up  there  playing  that 
violin.  His  eyes  are  little  and  blue,  and  his  hair  is 
red  and  very  short.  I  wish  she  could  hear  our 
violinist  play! 

And  there's  another  man  that  comes  to  the 
parties  and  teas;  —  oh,  of  course  there  are  others, 
lots  of  them,  married  men  with  wives,  and  un- 
married men  with  and  without  sisters.  But  1 
mean  another  man  specially.  His  name  is  Harlow. 
He 's  a  little  man  with  a  brown  pointed  beard  and 
big  soft  brown  eyes.  He  's  really  awfully  good- 
looking,  too.  I  don't  know  what  he  does  do;  but 
he 's  married.  I  know  that.  He  never  brings  his 
wife,  though;  but  Mother 's  always  asking  for  her, 
clear  and  distinct,  and  she  always  smiles,  and  her 
voice  kind  of  tinkles  like  little  silver  bells.  But 
just  the  same  he  never  brings  her. 

He  never  takes  her  anywhere.  I  heard  Aunt 
Hattie  tell  Mother  so  at  the  very  first,  when  he 
came.  She  said  they  were  n't  a  bit  happy  together, 
and  that  there 'd  probably  be  a  divorce  before 
long.  But  Mother  asked  for  her  just  the  same  the 
very  next  time.  And  she  's  done  it  ever  since. 

I  think  I  know  now  why  she  does.  I  found  out, 
and  I  was  simply  thrilled.  It  was  so  exciting!  You 
see,  they  were  lovers  once  themselves  —  Mother 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  51 

and  this  Mr.  Harlow.  Then  something  happened 
and  they  quarreled.  That  was  just  before  Father 
came. 

Of  course  Mother  did  n't  tell  me  this,  nor  Aunt 
Hattie.  It  was  two  ladies.  I  heard  them  talking 
at  a  tea  one  day.  I  was  right  behind  them,  and  I 
could  n't  get  away,  so  I  just  could  n't  help  hear- 
ing what  they  said. 

They  were  looking  across  the  room  at  Mother. 
Mr.  Harlow  was  talking  to  her.  He  was  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair  and  talking  so  earnestly  to 
Mother;  and  he  looked  just  as  if  he  thought  there 
was  n't  another  soul  in  the  room  but  just  they 
two.  But  Mother  —  Mother  was  just  listening  to 
be  polite  to  company.  Anybody  could  see  that. 
And  the  very  first  chance  she  got  she  turned  and 
began  to  talk  to  a  lady  who  was  standing  near. 
And  she  never  so  much  as  looked  toward  Mr. 
Harlow  again. 

The  ladies  in  front  of  me  laughed  then,  and 
one  of  them  said,  with  a  little  nod  of  her  head, 
"  I  guess  Madge  Desmond  Anderson  can  look  out 
for  herself  all  right." 

Then  they  got  up  and  went  away  without  see- 
ing me.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  felt  almost  sorry, 
for  I  wanted  them  to  see  me.  I  wanted  them  to 
see  that  I  knew  my  mother  could  take  care  of  her- 
self, too,  and  that  I  was  proud  of  it.  If  they  had 
turned  I'd  have  said  so.  But  they  didn't  turn. 


52  MARY  MARIE 

I  should  n't  like  Mr.  Harlow  for  a  father.  I 
know  I  should  n't.  But  then,  there 's  no  danger, 
of  course,  even  if  he  and  Mother  were  lovers 
once.  He 's  got  a  wife  now,  and  even  if  he  got  a 
divorce,  I  don't  believe  Mother  would  choose  him. 

But  of  course  there  's  no  telling  which  one  she 
will  take.  As  I  said  before,  I  don't  know.  It 's  too 
soon,  anyway,  to  tell.  I  suspect  it  is  n't  any  more 
proper  to  hurry  up  about  getting  married  again 
when  you've  been  unmarried  by  a  divorce  than 
it  is  when  you've  been  unmarried  by  your  hus- 
band's dying.  I  asked  Peter  one  day  how  soon 
folks  did  get  married  after  a  divorce,  but  he 
did  n't  seem  to  know.  Anyway,  all  he  said  was  to 
stammer:  "Er  —  yes,  Miss  —  no,  Miss.  I  mean, 
I  don't  know,  Miss." 

Peter  is  awfully  funny.  But  he's  nice.  I  like 
him,  only  I  can't  find  out  much  by  him.  He's 
very  good-looking,  though  he's  quite  old.  He's 
almost  thirty.  He  told  me.  I  asked  him.  He  takes 
me  back  and  forth  to  school  every  day,  so  I  see 
quite  a  lot  of  him.  And,  really,  he  's  about  the 
only  one  I  can  ask  questions  of  here,  anyway. 
There  is  n't  anybody  like  Nurse  Sarah  used  to  be. 
Olga,  the  cook,  talks  so  funny  I  can't  understand 
a  word  she  says,  hardly.  Besides,  the  only  two 
times  I  've  been  down  to  the  kitchen  Aunt  Hat- 
tie  sent  for  me;  and  she  told  me  the  last  time 
not  to  go  any  more.  She  did  n't  say  why.  Aunt 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  53 

Hattie  never  says  why  not  to  do  things.  She  just 
says,  "  Don't."  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  as  if 
my  whole  life  had  been  made  up  of  "don'ts." 
If  they  'd  only  tell  us  part  of  the  time  things  to 
"do"  maybe  we  wouldn't  have  so  much  time 
to  do  the  "don'ts."  (That  sounds  funny,  but  I 
guess  folks '11  know  what  I  mean.) 

Well,  what  was  I  saying?  Oh,  I  know  — 
about  asking  questions.  As  I  said,  there  is  n't 
anybody  like  Nurse  Sarah  here.  I  can't  under- 
stand Olga,  and  Theresa,  the  other  maid,  is  just 
about  as  bad.  Aunt  Hattie 's  lovely,  but  I  can't 
ask  questions  of  her.  She  is  n't  the  kind.  Besides, 
Lester 's  always  there,  too;  and  you  can't  discuss 
family  affairs  before  children.  Of  course  there 's 
Mother  and  Grandpa  Desmond.  But  questions 
like  when  it 's  proper  for  Mother  to  have  lovers 
I  can't  ask  of  them,  of  course.  So  there 's  no  one 
but  Peter  left  to  ask.  Peter 's  all  right  and  very 
nice,  but  he  does  n't  seem  to  know  anything  that 
I  want  to  know.  So  he  does  n't  amount  to  so  very 
much,  after  all 

I  'm  not  sure,  anyway,  that  Mother  '11  want  to 
get  married  again.  From  little  things  she  says  I 
rather  guess  she  does  n't  think  much  of  marriage, 
anyway.  One  day  I  heard  her  say  to  Aunt  Hattie 
that  it  was  a  very  pretty  theory  that  marriages 
were  made  in  heaven,  but  that  the  real  facts  of 
the  case  were  that  they  were  made  on  earth.  And 


54  MARY  MARIE 

another  day  I  heard  her  say  that  one  trouble 
with  marriage  was  that  the  husband  and  wife 
did  n't  know  how  to  play  together  and  to  rest 
together.  And  lots  of  times  I've  heard  her  say 
little  things  to  Aunt  Hattie  that  showed  how  un- 
happy her  marriage  had  been. 

But  last  night  a  funny  thing  happened.  We 
were  all  in  the  library  reading  after  dinner,  and 
Grandpa  looked  up  from  his  paper  and  said  some- 
thing about  a  woman  that  was  sentenced  to  be 
hanged  and  how  a  whole  lot  of  men  were  writ- 
ing letters  protesting  against  having  a  woman 
hanged;  but  there  were  only  one  or  two  letters 
from  women.  And  Grandpa  said  that  only  went 
to  prove  how  much  more  lacking  in  a  sense  of 
fitness  of  things  women  were  than  men.  And  he 
was  just  going  to  say  more  when  Aunt  Hattie 
bristled  up  and  tossed  her  chin,  and  said,  real 
indignantly : 

"A  sense  of  fitness  of  things,  indeed!  Oh,  yes, 
that's  all  very  well  to  say.  There  are  plenty  of 
men,  no  doubt,  who  are  shocked  beyond  any- 
thing at  the  idea  of  hanging  a  woman;  but  those 
same  men  will  think  nothing  of  going  straight 
home  and  making  life  for  some  other  woman  so 
absolutely  miserable  that  she'd  think  hanging 
would  be  a  lucky  escape  from  something  worse." 

"Harriet!"  exclaimed  Grandpa  in  a  shocked 
voice. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  55 

"Well,  I  mean  it!"  declared  Aunt  Hattie  em- 
phatically. "Look  at  poor  Madge  here,  and  that 
wretch  of  a  husband  of  hers!" 

And  just  here  is  where  the  funny  thing  hap- 
pened. Mother  bristled  up  —  Mother  —  and  even 
more  than  Aunt  Hattie  had.  She  turned  red  and 
then  white,  and  her  eyes  blazed. 

"That  will  do,  Hattie,  please,  in  my  presence," 
she  said,  very  cold,  like  ice.  "  Dr.  Anderson  is 
not  a  wretch  at  all.  He  is  an  honorable,  scholarly 
gentleman.  Without  doubt  he  meant  to  be  kind 
and  considerate.  He  simply  did  not  understand  me. 
We  were  n't  suited  to  each  other.  That 's  all." 

And  she  got  up  and  swept  out  of  the  room. 

Now  was  n't  that  funny?  But  I  just  loved  it, 
all  the  same.  I  always  love  Mother  when  she's 
superb  and  haughty  and  disdainful. 

Well,  after  she  had  gone  Aunt  Hattie  looked  at 
Grandpa  and  Grandpa  looked  at  Aunt  Hattie. 
Grandpa  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  gave  his 
hands  a  funny  little  flourish;  and  Aunt  Hattie 
lifted  her  eyebrows  and  said: 

"Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  (Aunt 
Hattie  forgot  I  was  in  the  room,  I  know,  or  she  'd 
never  in  the  world  have  used  slang  like  that!) 
"And  after  all  the  things  she's  said  about  how 
unhappy  she  was!"  finished  Aunt  Hattie. 

Grandpa  did  n't  say  anything,  but  just  gave 
his  funny  little  shrug  again. 


56  MARY  MARIE 

And  it  was  kind  of  queer,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it  —  about  Mother,  I  mean,  was  n't  it? 

One  month  later. 

Well,  I  Ve  been  here  another  whole  month,  and 
it 's  growing  nicer  all  the  time.  I  just  love  it  here. 
I  love  the  sunshine  everywhere,  and  the  curtains 
up  to  let  it  in.  And  the  flowers  in  the  rooms, 
and  the  little  fern-dish  on  the  dining-room  table, 
the  books  and  magazines  just  lying  around  ready 
to  be  picked  up;  Baby  Lester  laughing  and  sing- 
ing all  over  the  house,  and  lovely  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen in  the  drawing-room  having  music  and  tea 
and  little  cakes  when  I  come  home  from  school 
in  the  afternoon.  And  I  love  it  not  to  have  to 
look  up  and  watch  and  listen  for  fear  Father's 
coming  in  and  I  '11  be  making  a  noise.  And  best  of 
all  I  love  Mother  with  her  dancing  eyes  and  her 
laugh,  and  her  just  being  happy,  with  no  going  in 
and  finding  her  crying  or  looking  long  and  fixedly 
at  nothing,  and  then  turning  to  me  with  a  great 
big  sigh,  and  a  "Well,  dear?"  that  just  makes 
you  want  to  go  and  cry  because  it 's  so  hurt  and 
heart-broken.  Oh,  I  do  just  love  it  all! 

And  Mother  is  happy.  I'm  sure  she  is.  Some- 
body is  doing  something  for  her  every  moment 
—  seems  so.  They  are  so  glad  to  get  her  back 
again.  I  know  they  are.  I  heard  two  ladies  talk- 
ing one  day,  and  they  said  they  were.  They  called 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  57 

her  "Poor  Madge,"  and  "Dear  Madge,"  and 
they  said  it  was  a  shame  that  she  should  have 
had  such  a  wretched  experience,  and  that  they 
for  one  should  try  to  do  everything  they  could  to 
make  her  forget. 

And  that 's  what  they  all  seem  to  be  trying  to 
do  —  to  make  her  forget.  There  is  n't  a  day  goes 
by  but  that  somebody  sends  flowers  or  books  or 
candy,  or  invites  her  somewhere,  or  takes  her  to 
ride  or  to  the  theater,  or  comes  to  see  her,  so  that 
Mother  is  in  just  one  whirl  of  good  times  from 
morning  till  night.  Why,  she  'd  just  have  to  forget. 
She  does  n't  have  any  time  to  remember.  I  think 
she  is  forgetting,  too.  Oh,  of  course  she  gets  tired, 
and  sometimes  rainy  days  or  twilights  I  find  her 
on  the  sofa  in  her  room  not  reading  or  anything, 
and  her  face  looks  'most  as  it  used  to  sometimes 
after  they  'd  been  having  one  of  their  incompati- 
bility times.  But  I  don't  find  her  that  way  very 
often,  and  it  does  n't  last  long.  So  I  really  think 
she  is  forgetting. 

About  the  prospective  suitors  —  I  found  that 
"prospective  suitor"  in  a  story  a  week  ago,  and 
I  just  love  it.  It  means  you  probably  will  want 
to  marry  her,  you  know.  I  use  it  all  the  time  now 
—  in  my  mind  —  when  I  'm  thinking  about  those 
gentlemen  that  come  here  (the  unmarried  ones). 
I  forgot  and  used  it  out  loud  one  day  to  Aunt 
Hattie;  but  I  shan't  again.  She  said,  "Mercy!" 


58  MARY  MARIE 

and  threw  up  her  hands  and  looked  over  to 
Grandpa  the  way  she  does  when  I  Ve  said  some- 
thing she  thinks  is  perfectly  awful. 

But  I  was  firm  and  dignified  —  but  very  po- 
lite and  pleasant  —  and  I  said  that  I  did  n't  see 
why  she  should  act  like  that,  for  of  course  they 
were  prospective  suitors,  the  unmarried  ones, 
anyway,  and  even  some  of  the  married  ones, 
maybe,  like  Mr.  Harlow,  for  of  course  they  could 
get  divorces,  and  — 

"ManW  interrupted  Aunt  Hattie  then,  be- 
fore I  could  say  another  word,  or  go  on  to  explain 
that  of  course  Mother  could  n't  be  expected  to 
stay  unmarried  always,  though  I  was  very  sure 
she  would  n't  get  married  again  until  she  'd 
waited  long  enough,  and  until  it  was  perfectly 
proper  and  genteel  for  her  to  take  unto  herself 
another  husband. 

But  Aunt  Hattie  would  n't  even  listen.  And 
she  threw  up  her  hands  and  said  "  Mam  /  "  again 
with  the  emphasis  on  the  last  part  of  the  name 
the  way  I  simply  loathe.  And  she  told  me  never, 
never  to  let  her  hear  me  make  such  a  speech  as 
that  again.  And  I  said  I  would  be  very  careful 
not  to.  And  you  may  be  sure  I  shall.  I  don't  want 
to  go  through  a  scene  like  that  again! 

She  told  Mother  about  it,  though,  I  think.  Any- 
how, they  were  talking  very  busily  together  when 
they  came  into  the  library  after  dinner  that  night, 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  59 

and  Mother  looked  sort  of  flushed  and  plagued, 
and  I  heard  her  say,  "  Perhaps  the  child  does  read 
too  many  novels,  Hattie." 

And  Aunt  Hattie  answered,  "Of  course  she 
does!"  Then  she  said  something  else  which  I  did 
n't  catch,  only  the  words  "silly"  and  "roman- 
tic" and  "pre-co-shus."  (I  don't  know  what  that 
last  means,  but  I  put  it  down  the  way  it  sounded, 
and  I  'm  going  to  look  it  up.) 

Then  they  turned  and  saw  me,  and  they  did 
n't  say  anything  more.  But  the  next  morning  the 
perfectly  lovely  story  I  was  reading,  that  The- 
resa let  me  take,  called  "The  Hidden  Secret," 
I  could  n't  find  anywhere.  And  when  I  asked 
Mother  if  she'd  seen  it,  she  said  she'd  given  it 
back  to  Theresa,  and  that  I  must  n't  ask  for 
it  again.  That  I  was  n't  old  enough  yet  to  read 
such  stories. 

There  it  is  again!  I'm  not  old  enough.  When 
will  I  be  allowed  to  take  my  proper  place  in  life? 
Echo  answers  when. 

Well,  to  resume  and  go  on. 

What  was  I  talking  about?  Oh,  I  know  —  the 
prospective  suitors.  (Aunt  Hattie  can't  hear  me 
when  I  just  write  it,  anyway.)  Well,  they  all  come 
just  as  they  used  to,  only  there  are  more  of  them 
now  — two  fat  men,  one  slim  one,  and  a  man 
with  a  halo  of  hair  round  a  bald  spot.  Oh,  I  don't 
mean  that  any  of  them  are  really  suitors  yet. 


60  MARY  MARIE 

They  just  come  to  call  and  to  tea,  and  send  her 
flowers  and  candy.  And  Mother  is  n't  a  mite 
nicer  to  one  than  she  is  to  any  of  the  others.  Any- 
body can  see  that.  And  she  shows  very  plainly 
she's  no  notion  of  picking  anybody  out  yet. 
But  of  course  I  can't  help  being  interested  and 
watching. 

It  won't  be  Mr.  Harlow,  anyway.  I'm  pretty 
sure  of  that,  even  if  he  has  started  in  to  get  his 
divorce.  (And  he  has.  I  heard  Aunt  Hattie  tell 
Mother  so  last  week.)  But  Mother  does  n't  like 
him.  I  'm  sure  she  does  n't.  He  makes  her  awfully 
nervous.  Oh,  she  laughs  and  talks  with  him  — 
seems  as  if  she  laughs  even  more  with  him  than 
she  does  with  anybody  else.  But  she's  always 
looking  around  for  somebody  else  to  talk  to;  and 
I've  seen  her  get  up  and  move  off  just  asvhe  was 
coming  across  the  room  toward  her,  and  I'm  just 
sure  she  saw  him.  There  's  another  reason,  too, 
why  I  think  Mother  is  n't  going  to  choose  him 
for  her  lover.  I  heard  something  she  said  to  him 
one  day. 

She  was  sitting  before  the  fire  in  the  library, 
and  he  came  in.  There  were  other  people  there, 
quite  a  lot  of  them;  but  Mother  was  all  alone  by 
the  fireplace,  her  eyes  looking  fixed  and  dreamy 
into  the  fire.  I  was  in  the  window-seat  around  the 
corner  of  the  chimney  reading;  and  I  could  see 
Mother  in  the  mirror  just  as  plain  as  could  be. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  61 

She  could  have  seen  me,  too,  of  course,  if  she'd 
looked  up.  But  she  did  n't. 

I  never  even  thought  of  hearing  anything  I 
had  n't  ought,  and  I  was  just  going  to  get  down 
to  go  and  speak  to  Mother  myself,  when  Mr.  Har- 
low crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
beside  her. 

"Dreaming,  Madge?"  he  said,  low  and  soft, 
his  soulful  eyes  just  devouring  her  lovely  face. 
(I  read  that,  too,  in  a  book  last  week.  I  just  loved 
it!) 

Mother  started  and  flushed  up. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Harlow!"  she  cried.  (Mother  always 
calls  him  "Mr."  That 's  another  thing.  He  always 
calls  her  "Madge,"  you  know.)  "How  do  you 
do?"  Then  she  gave  her  quick  little  look  around 
to  see  if  there  was  n't  somebody  else  near  for  her 
to  talk  to.  But  there  was  n't. 

"  But  you  do  dream  of  the  old  days,  sometimes, 
Madge,  don't  you?  "  he  began  again,  soft  and  low, 
leaning  a  little  nearer. 

"Of  when  I  was  a  child  and  played  dolls  be- 
fore this  very  fireplace?  Well,  yes,  perhaps  I  do," 
laughed  Mother.  And  I  could  see  she  drew  away 
a  little.  "There  was  one  doll  with  a  broken  head 
that—" 

"7  was  speaking  of  broken  hearts,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Harlow,  very  meaningfully. 

"Broken  hearts!  Nonsense!  As  if  there  were 


m  MARY  MARIE 

such  things  in  the  world!"  cried  Mother,  with  a 
little  toss  to  her  head,  looking  around  again  with 
a  quick  little  glance  for  some  one  else  to  talk  to. 

But  still  there  was  n't  anybody  there. 

They  were  all  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  room 
talking,  and  paying  no  attention  to  Mother  and 
Mr.  Harlow,  only  the  violinist.  He  looked  and 
looked,  and  acted  nervous  with  his  watch-chain. 
But  he  did  n't  come  over.  I  felt,  some  way,  that 
I  ought  to  go  away  and  not  hear  any  more;  but  I 
could  n't  without  showing  them  that  I  had  been 
there.  So  I  thought  it  was  better  to  stay  just  where 
I  was.  They  could  see  me,  anyway,  if  they'd  just 
look  in  the  mirror.  So  I  did  n't  feel  that  I  was 
sneaking.  And  I  stayed. 

Then  Mr.  Harlow  spoke  again.  His  eyes  grew 
even  more  soulful  and  devouring.  I  could  see 
them  in  the  mirror. 

"Madge,  it  seems  so  strange  that  we  should 
both  have  had  to  trail  through  the  tragedy  of 
broken  hearts  and  lives  before  we  came  to  our 
real  happiness.  For  we  shall  be  happy,  Madge. 
You  know  I  'm  to  be  free,  too,  soon,  dear,  and 
then  we — " 

But  he  did  n't  finish.  Mother  put  up  her  hand 
and  stopped  him.  Her  face  was  n't  flushed  any 
more.  It  was  very  white. 

"Carl,"  she  began  in  a  still,  quiet  voice,  and  I 
was  so  thrilled.  I  knew  something  was  going  to 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  63 

happen  —  this  time  she  'd  called  him  by  his  first 
name.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  went  on.  "I've  tried  to 
show  you.  I ' ve  tried  very  hard  to  show  you  — 
without  speaking.  But  if  you  make  me  say  it  I 
shall  have  to  say  it.  Whether  you  are  free  or  not 
matters  not  to  me.  It  can  make  no  difference  in 
our  relationship.  Now,  will  you  come  with  me  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  or  must  I  be  so  rude 
as  to  go  and  leave  you?" 

She  got  up  then,  and  he  got  up,  too.  He  said 
something  —  I  couldn't  hear  what  it  was;  but 
it  was  sad  and  reproachful  —  I  'm  sure  of  that 
by  the  look  in  his  eyes.  Then  they  both  walked 
across  the  room  to  the  others. 

I  was  sorry  for  him.  I  do  not  want  him  for  a 
father,  but  I  could  n't  help  being  sorry  for  him, 
he  looked  so  sad  and  mournful  and  handsome; 
and  he  's  got  perfectly  beautiful  eyes.  (Oh,  I  do 
hope  mine  will  have  nice  eyes,  when  I  find  him !) 

As  I  said  before,  I  don't  believe  Mother '11 
choose  Mr.  Harlow,  anyway,  even  when  the  time 
comes.  As  for  any  of  the  others  —  I  can't  tell. 
She  treats  them  all  just  exactly  alike,  as  far  as  I 
can  see.  Polite  and  pleasant,  but  not  at  all  lover- 
like. I  was  talking  to  Peter  one  day  about  it,  and 
I  asked  him.  But  he  did  n't  seem  to  know,  either, 
which  one  she  will  be  likely  to  take,  if  any. 

Peter 's  about  the  only  one  I  can  ask.  Of  course 
I  could  n't  ask  Mother,  or  Aunt  Hattie,  after 


64  MARY  MARIE 

what  she  said  about  my  calling  them  prospective 
suitors.  And  Grandfather  —  well,  I  should  never 
think  of  asking  Grandpa  a  question  like  that. 
But  Peter  —  Peter 's  a  real  comfort.  I  'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  for  somebody  to 
talk  to  and  ask  questions  about  things  down  here, 
if  it  was  n't  for  him.  As  I  think  I  've  said  already, 
he  takes  me  to  school  and  back  again  every  day; 
so  of  course  I  see  him  quite  a  lot. 

Speaking  of  school,  it 's  all  right,  and  of  course 
I  like  it,  though  not  quite  so  well  as  I  did.  There 
are  some  of  the  girls  —  well,  they  act  queer.  I 
don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  them.  They 
stop  talking  —  some  of  them  —  when  I  come  up, 
and  they  make  me  feel,  sometimes,  as  if  I  did  n't 
belong.  Maybe  it's  because  I  came  from  a  little 
country  town  like  Andersonville.  But  they've 
known  that  all  along,  from  the  very  first.  And 
they  did  n't  act  at  all  like  that  at  the  beginning. 
Maybe  it's  just  their  way  down  here.  If  I  think 
of  it  I'll  ask  Peter  to-morrow. 

Well,  I  guess  that 's  all  I  can  think  of  this  time. 

'Most  four  months  later. 

It 's  been  ages  since  I  've  written  here,  I  know. 
But  there 's  nothing  special  happened.  Every- 
thing has  been  going  along  just  about  as  it  did 
at  the  first.  Oh,  there  is  one  thing  different  — 
Peter 's  gone.  He  went  two  months  ago.  We  've 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  65 

got  an  awfully  old  chauffeur  now.  One  with  gray 
hair  and  glasses,  and  homely,  too.  His  name  is 
Charles.  The  very  first  day  he  came,  Aunt  Hattie 
told  me  never  to  talk  to  Charles,  or  bother  him 
with  questions;  that  it  was  better  he  should  keep 
his  mind  entirely  on  his  driving. 

She  need  n't  have  worried.  I  should  never 
dream  of  asking  him  the  things  I  did  Peter.  He 's 
too  stupid.  Now  Peter  and  I  got  to  be  real  good 
friends  —  until  all  of  a  sudden  Grandpa  told  him 
he  might  go.  I  don't  know  why. 

I  don't  see  as  I  'm  any  nearer  finding  out  who 
Mother's  lover  will  be  than  I  was  four  months 
ago.  I  suppose  it's  still  too  soon.  Peter  said  one 
day  he  thought  widows  ought  to  wait  at  least  a 
year,  and  he  guessed  grass-widows  were  just  the 
same.  My,  how  mad  I  was  at  him  for  using  that 
name  about  my  mother!  Oh,  I  knew  what  he 
meant.  I  'd  heard  it  at  school.  (I  know  now  what 
it  was  that  made  those  girls  act  so  queer  and  hor- 
rid.) There  was  a  girl  —  I  never  liked  her,  and 
I  suspect  she  did  n't  like  me,  either.  Well,  she 
found  out  Mother  had  a  divorce.  (You  see,  / 
had  n't  told  it.  I  remembered  how  those  girls 
out  West  bragged.)  And  she  told  a  lot  of  the 
others.  But  it  did  n't  work  at  all  as  it  had  in  the 
West.  None  of  the  girls  in  this  school  here  had  a 
divorce  in  their  families;  and,  if  you'll  believe  it, 
they  acted  —  some  of  them  —  as  if  it  was  a  dis- 


66  MARY  MARIE 

grace,  even  after  I  told  them  good  and  plain  that 
ours  was  a  perfectly  respectable  and  genteel  di- 
vorce. Nothing  I  could  say  made  a  mite  of  dif- 
ference, with  some  of  the  girls,  and  then  is  when 
I  first  heard  that  perfectly  horrid  word,  "grass- 
widow."  So  I  knew  what  Peter  meant,  though  I 
was  furious  at  him  for  using  it.  And  I  let  him  see 
it  good  and  plain. 

Of  course  I  changed  schools.  I  knew  Mother 'd 
want  me  to,  when  she  knew,  and  so  I  told  her 
right  away.  I  thought  she'd  be  superb  and 
haughty  and  disdainful  sure  this  time.  But  she 
was  n't.  First  she  grew  so  white  I  thought  she 
was  going  to  faint  away.  Then  she  began  to  cry, 
and  kiss  and  hug  me.  And  that  night  I  heard  her 
talking  to  Aunt  Hattie  and  saying,  "To  think 
that  that  poor  innocent  child  has  to  suffer,  too!" 
and  some  more  which  I  could  n't  hear,  because 
her  voice  was  all  choked  up  and  shaky. 

Mother  is  crying  now  again  quite  a  lot.  You 
see,  her  six  months  are  'most  up,  and  I  've  got  to 
go  back  to  Father.  And  I'm  afraid  Mother  is 
awfully  unhappy  about  it.  She  had  a  letter  last 
week  from  Aunt  Jane,  Father's  sister.  I  heard 
her  read  it  out  loud  to  Aunt  Hattie  and  Grandpa 
in  the  library.  It  was  very  stiff  and  cold  and  dig- 
nified, and  ran  something  like  this: 

Dear  Madam:  Dr.  Anderson  desires  me  to  say 
that  he  trusts  you  are  bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that, 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  67 

according  to  the  decision  of  the  court,  his  daughter 
Mary  is  to  come  to  him  on  the  first  day  of  May.  If 
you  will  kindly  inform  him  as  to  the  hour  of  her  ex- 
pected arrival,  he  will  see  that  she  is  properly  met  at 
the  station. 

Then  she  signed  her  name,  Abigail  Jane  Ander- 
son. (She  was  named  for  her  mother,  Grandma 
Anderson,  same  as  Father  wanted  them  to  name 
me.  Mercy!  I'm  glad  they  did  n't.  "Mary"  is  bad 
enough,  but  "Abigail  Jane"  — !) 

Well,  Mother  read  the  letter  aloud,  then  she 
began  to  talk  about  it  —  how  she  felt,  and  how 
awful  it  was  to  think  of  giving  me  up  six  whole 
months,  and  sending  her  bright  little  sunny- 
hearted  Marie  into  that  tomb-like  place  with 
only  an  Abigail  Jane  to  flee  to  for  refuge.  And  she 
said  that  she  almost  wished  Nurse  Sarah  was  back 
again  —  that  she,  at  least,  was  human. 

"'And  see  that  she's  properly  met,'  indeed!" 
went  on  Mother,  with  an  indignant  little  choke 
in  her  voice.  "Oh,  yes,  I  know!  Now  if  it  were  a 
star  or  a  comet  that  he  expected,  he  'd  go  himself 
and  sit  for  hours  and  hours  watching  for  it.  But 
when  his  daughter  comes,  he'll  send  John  with 
the  horses,  like  enough,  and  possibly  that  pre- 
cious Abigail  Jane  of  his.  Or,  maybe  that  is  too 
much  to  expect.  Oh,  Hattie,  I  can't  let  her  go  — 
I  can't,  I  can't!" 

I  was  in  the  window-seat  around  the  corner 


68  MARY  MARIE 

of  the  chimney,  reading;  and  I  don't  know  as  she 
knew  I  was  there.  But  I  was,  and  I  heard.  And 
I  've  heard  other  things,  too,  all  this  week. 

I'm  to  go  next  Monday,  and  as  it  comes 
nearer  the  time  Mother 's  getting  worse  and  worse. 
She's  so  unhappy  over  it.  And  of  course  that 
makes  me  unhappy,  too.  But  I  try  not  to  show  it. 
Only  yesterday,  when  she  was  crying  and  hugging 
me,  and  telling  me  how  awful  it  was  that  her  little 
girl  should  have  to  suffer,  too,  I  told  her  not  to 
worry  a  bit  about  me;  that  I  was  n't  suffering  at 
all.  I  liked  it.  It  was  ever  so  much  more  exciting 
to  have  two  homes  instead  of  one.  But  she  only 
cried  all  the  more,  and  sobbed,  "Oh,  my  baby, 
my  baby!"  —  so  nothing  I  could  say  seemed  to 
do  one  mite  of  good. 

But  I  meant  it,  and  I  told  the  truth.  I  am  ex- 
cited. And  I  can't  help  wondering  how  it 's  all  go- 
ing to  be  at  Father's.  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  it  won't 
be  so  much  fun,  and  I'll  have  to  be  "Mary," 
and  all  that;  but  it'll  be  something  different,  and 
I  always  did  like  different  things.  Besides,  there 's 
Father's  love  story  to  watch.  Maybe  he 's  found 
somebody.  Maybe  he  did  n't  wait  a  year.  Any- 
how, if  he  did  find  somebody  I  'm  sure  he  would 
n't  be  so  willing  to  wait  as  Mother  would.  You 
know  Nurse  Sarah  said  Father  never  wanted 
to  wait  for  anything.  That's  why  he  married 
Mother  so  quick,  in  the  first  place.  But  if  there  is 


"I  TOLD  HER  NOT  TO  WORRY  A  BIT  ABOUT  ME" 


WHEN  I  AM  MARIE  69 

somebody,  of  course  I  '11  find  out  when  I  'm  there. 
So  that'll  be  interesting.  And,  anyway,  there'll 
be  the  girls.  I  shall  have  them. 

I'll  close  now,  and  make  this  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  It'll  be  Andersonville  next  time. 


CHAPTER  V 
When  I  am  Mary 

Andersonville. 

Well,  here  I  am.  I ' ve  been  here  two  days  now, 
and  I  guess  I'd  better  write  down  what's  hap- 
pened so  far,  before  I  forget  it. 

First,  about  my  leaving  Boston.  Poor,  dear 
Mother  did  take  on  dreadfully,  and  I  thought  she 
just  would  n't  let  me  go.  She  went  with  me  to  the 
junction  where  I  had  to  change,  and  put  me  on 
the  parlor  car  for  Andersonville,  and  asked  the 
conductor  to  look  out  for  me.  (As  if  I  needed  that 
—  a  young  lady  like  me !  I  'm  fourteen  now.  I  had 
a  birthday  last  week.) 

But  I  thought  at  the  last  that  she  just  would 
n't  let  me  go,  she  clung  to  me  so,  and  begged  me 
to  forgive  her  for  all  she'd  brought  upon  me;  and 
said  it  was  a  cruel,  cruel  shame,  when  there  were 
children,  and  people  ought  to  stop  and  think  and 
remember,  and  be  willing  to  stand  anything.  And 
then,  in  the  next  breath,  she  'd  beg  me  not  to  for- 
get her,  and  not  to  love  Father  better  than  I  did 
her.  (As  if  there  was  any  danger  of  that !)  And  to 
write  to  her  every  few  minutes. 

Then  the  conductor  cried,  "All  aboard!"  and 
the  bell  rang,  and  she  had  to  go  and  leave  me. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  7] 

But  the  last  I  saw  of  her  she  was  waving  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  smiling  the  kind  of  a  smile  that 's 
worse  than  crying  right  out  loud.  Mother's 
always  like  that.  No  matter  how  bad  she  feels, 
at  the  last  minute  she  comes  up  bright  and  smil- 
ing, and  just  as  brave  as  can  be. 

I  had  a  wonderful  trip  to  Andersonville.  Every- 
body was  very  kind  to  me,  and  there  were  lovely 
things  to  see  out  the  window.  The  conductor  came 
in  and  spoke  to  me  several  times  —  not  the  way 
you  would  look  after  a  child,  but  the  way  a  gen- 
tleman would  tend  to  a  lady.  I  liked  him  very 
much. 

There  was  a  young  gentleman  in  the  seat  in 
front,  too,  who  was  very  nice.  He  loaned  me  a  mag- 
azine, and  bought  some  candy  for  me;  but  I  did 
n't  see  much  more  of  him,  for  the  second  time  the 
conductor  came  in  he  told  me  he  'd  found  a  nice 
seat  back  in  the  car  on  the  shady  side.  He  noticed 
the  sun  came  in  where  I  sat,  he  said.  (/  had  n't 
noticed  it  specially.)  But  he  picked  up  my  bag 
and  magazine  —  but  I  guess  he  forgot  the  candy- 
box  the  nice  young  gentleman  in  front  had  just 
put  on  my  window-sill,  for  when  I  got  into  my 
new  seat  the  candy  was  n't  anywhere;  and  of 
course  I  did  n't  like  to  go  back  for  it.  But  the 
conductor  was  very  nice  and  kind,  and  came  in 
twice  again  to  see  if  I  liked  my  new  seat;  and  of 
course  I  said  I  did.  It  was  very  nice  and  shady, 


72  MARY  MARIE 

and  there  was  a  lady  and  a  baby  in  the  next  seat, 
and  I  played  with  the  baby  quite  a  lot. 

It  was  heaps  of  fun  to  be  grown  up  and 
traveling  alone  like  that !  I  sat  back  in  my  seat 
and  wondered  and  wondered  what  the  next  six 
months  were  going  to  be  like.  And  I  wondered, 
too,  if  I'd  forgotten  how  to  be  "Mary." 

"Dear  me!  How  shall  I  ever  remember  not  to 
rim  and  skip  and  laugh  loud  or  sing,  or  ask  ques- 
tions, or  do  anything  that  Marie  wants  to  do?" 
I  thought  to  myself. 

And  I  wondered  if  Aunt  Jane  would  meet  me, 
and  what  she  would  be  like.  She  came  once  when 
I  was  a  little  girl,  Mother  said;  but  I  did  n't  re- 
member her. 

Well,  at  last  we  got  to  Andersonville.  John  was 
there  with  the  horses,  and  Aunt  Jane,  too.  Of 
course  I  knew  she  must  be  Aunt  Jane,  because 
she  was  with  John.  The  conductor  was  awfully 
nice  and  polite,  and  did  n't  leave  me  till  he  'd 
seen  me  safe  in  the  hands  of  Aunt  Jane  and  John. 
Then  he  went  back  to  his  train,  and  the  next 
minute  it  had  whizzed  out  of  the  station,  and  I 
was  alone  with  the  beginning  of  my  next  six 
months. 

The  first  beginning  was  a  nice  smile,  and  a 
"Glad  to  see  ye  home,  Miss,"  from  John,  as  he 
touched  his  hat,  and  the  next  was  a  "How  do 
you  do,  Mary?"  from  Aunt  Jane.  And  I  knew 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  73 

right  off  that  first  minute  that  I  was  n't  going  to 
like  Aunt  Jane  —  just  the  way  she  said  that 
"Mary,"  and  the  way  she  looked  me  over  from 
head  to  foot. 

Aunt  Jane  is  tall  and  thin,  and  wears  black  — 
not  the  pretty,  stylish  black,  but  the  "I-don't- 
care"  rusty  black  —  and  a  stiff  white  collar.  Her 
eyes  are  the  kind  that  says,  "I'm  surprised  at 
you!"  all  the  time,  and  her  mouth  is  the  kind 
that  never  shows  any  teeth  when  it  smiles,  and 
does  n't  smile  much,  anyway.  Her  hair  is  some 
gray,  and  does  n't  kink  or  curl  anywhere;  and 
I  knew  right  off  the  first  minute  she  looked 
at  me  that  she  did  n't  like  mine,  'cause  it  did 
curl. 

I  was  pretty  sure  she  did  n't  like  my  clothes, 
either.  I  've  since  found  out  she  did  n't  —  but 
more  of  that  anon.  (I  just  love  that  word  "  anon.") 
And  I  just  knew  she  disapproved  of  my  hat.  But 
she  did  n't  say  anything  —  not  in  words  —  and 
after  we  'd  attended  to  my  trunk,  we  went  along 
to  the  carriage  and  got  in. 

My  stars !  I  did  n't  suppose  horses  could  go  so 
slow.  Why,  we  were  ages  just  going  a  block.  You 
see  I'd  forgotten;  and  without  thinking  I  spoke 
right  out. 

"My!  Horses  are  slow,  are  n't  they?"  I  cried. 
"You  see,  Grandpa  has  an  auto,  and  — " 

"Mary!"  —  just  like  that  she  interrupted  — 


74  MARY  MARIE 

Aunt  Jane  did.  (Funny  how  old  folks  can  do  what 
they  won't  let  you  do.  Now  if  I'd  interrupted 
anybody  like  that!)  "You  may  as  well  under- 
stand at  once,"  went  on  Aunt  Jane,  "that  we  are 
not  interested  in  your  grandfather's  auto,  or  his 
house,  or  anything  that  is  his."  (I  felt  as  if  I  was 
hearing  the  catechism  in  church!)  "And  that  the 
less  reference  you  make  to  your  life  in  Boston, 
the  better  we  shall  be  pleased.  As  I  said  before, 
we  are  not  interested.  Besides,  while  under  your 
father's  roof,  it  would  seem  to  me  very  poor  taste, 
indeed,  for  you  to  make  constant  reference  to 
things  you  may  have  been  doing  while  not  under 
his  roof.  The  situation  is  deplorable  enough,  how- 
ever you  take  it,  without  making  it  positively 
unbearable.  You  will  remember,  Mary?" 

Mary  said,  "Yes,  Aunt  Jane,"  very  polite  and 
proper;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  inside  of  Mary, 
Marie  was  just  boiling. 

Unbearable,  indeed! 

We  did  n't  say  anything  more  all  the  way  home. 
Naturally,  I  was  not  going  to,  after  that  speech; 
and  Aunt  Jane  said  nothing.  So  silence  reigned 
supreme. 

Then  we  got  home.  Things  looked  quite  nat- 
ural, only  there  was  a  new  maid  in  the  kitchen, 
and  Nurse  Sarah  was  n't  there.  Father  was  n't 
there,  either.  And,  just  as  I  suspected,  't  was  a 
star  that  was  to  blame,  only  this  time  the  star 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  75 

was  the  moon  —  an  eclipse;  and  he'd  gone  some- 
where out  West  so  he  could  see  it  better. 

He  is  n't  coming  back  till  next  week;  and  when 
I  think  how  he  made  me  come  on  the  first  day, 
so  as  to  get  in  the  whole  six  months,  when  all  the 
time  he  did  not  care  enough  about  it  to  be  here 
himself,  I  'm  just  mad  —  I  mean,  the  righteously 
indignant  kind  of  mad  —  for  I  can't  help  think- 
ing how  poor  Mother  would  have  loved  those 
extra  days  with  her. 

Aunt  Jane  said  I  was  to  have  my  old  room, 
and  so,  as  soon  as  I  got  here,  I  went  right  up  and 
took  off  my  hat  and  coat,  and  pretty  quick  they 
brought  up  my  trunk,  and  I  unpacked  it;  and  I 
did  n't  hurry  about  it  either.  I  was  n't  a  bit  anx- 
ious to  get  downstairs  again  to  Aunt  Jane.  Be- 
sides, I  may  as  well  own  up,  I  was  crying  —  a 
little.  Mother's  room  was  right  across  the  hall, 
and  it  looked  so  lonesome;  and  I  could  n't  help 
remembering  how  different  this  homecoming  was 
from  the  one  in  Boston,  six  months  ago. 

Well,  at  last  I  had  to  go  down  to  dinner  —  I 
mean  supper  —  and,  by  the  way,  I  made  another 
break  on  that.  I  called  it  dinner  right  out  loud, 
and  never  thought  —  till  I  saw  Aunt  Jane's  face. 

''Supper  will  be  ready  directly,"  she  said,  with 
cold  and  icy  emphasis,  "And  may  I  ask  you  to 
remember,  Mary,  please,  that  Andersonville  has 
dinner  at  noon,  not  at  six  o'clock." 


76  MARY  MARIE 

"Yes,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Mary,  polite  and  pro- 
per again.  (I  shan't  say  what  Marie  said  inside.) 

We  did  n't  do  anything  in  the  evening  but  read 
and  go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock.  I  wanted  to  run 
over  to  Carrie  Hey  wood's;  but  Aunt  Jane  said 
no,  not  till  morning.  (I  wonder  why  young  folks 
never  can  do  things  when  they  want  to  do  them, 
but  must  always  wait  till  morning  or  night  or 
noon,  or  some  other  time !) 

In  the  morning  I  went  up  to  the  schoolhouse. 
I  planned  it  so  as  to  get  there  at  recess,  and  I  saw 
all  the  girls  except  one  that  was  sick,  and  one 
that  was  away.  We  had  a  perfectly  lovely  time, 
only  everybody  was  talking  at  once  so  that  I 
don't  know  now  what  was  said.  But  they  seemed 
glad  to  see  me.  I  know  that.  Maybe  I'll  go  to 
school  next  week.  Aunt  Jane  says  she  thinks  I 
ought  to,  when  it 's  only  the  first  of  May.  She 's 
going  to  speak  to  Father  when  he  comes  next 
week. 

She  was  going  to  speak  to  him  about  my 
clothes;  then  she  decided  to  attend  to  those  her- 
self, and  not  bother  him.  As  I  suspected,  she 
does  n't  like  my  dresses.  I  found  out  this  morning 
for  sure.  She  came  into  my  room  and  asked  to 
see  my  things.  My !  But  did  n't  I  hate  to  show 
them  to  her?  Marie  said  she  would  n't;  but  Mary 
obediently  trotted  to  the  closet  and  brought 
them  out  one  by  one. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  77 

Aunt  Jane  turned  them  around  with  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  all  the  time  sighing  and  shaking 
her  head.  When  I'd  brought  them  all  out,  she 
shook  her  head  again  and  said  they  would  not 
do  at  all  —  not  in  Anderson ville;  that  they  were 
extravagant,  and  much  too  elaborate  for  a  young 
girl;  that  she  would  see  the  dressmaker  and  ar- 
range that  I  had  some  serviceable  blue  and  brown 
serges  at  once. 

Blue  and  brown  serge,  indeed!  But,  there, 
what's  the  use?  I'm  Mary  now.  I  keep  forget- 
ting that;  though  I  don't  see  how  I  can  forget  it  — 
with  Aunt  Jane  around. 

But,  listen.  A  funny  thing  happened  this  morn- 
ing. Something  came  up  about  Boston,  and  Aunt 
Jane  asked  me  a  question.  Then  she  asked  an- 
other and  another,  and  she  kept  me  talking  till 
I  guess  I  talked  'most  a  whole  half -hour  about 
Grandpa  Desmond,  Aunt  Hattie,  Mother,  and 
the  house,  and  what  we  did,  and,  oh,  a  whole  lot 
of  things.  And  here,  just  two  days  ago,  she  was 
telling  me  that  she  was  n't  interested  in  Grandpa 
Desmond,  his  home,  or  his  daughter,  or  anything 
that  was  his! 

There 's  something  funny  about  Aunt  Jane. 

One  week  later. 

Father 's  come.  He  came  yesterday.  But  I 
did  n't  know  it,  and  I  came  running  downstairs, 


78  MARY  MARIE 

ending  with  a  little  bounce  for  the  last  step.  And 
there,  right  in  front  of  me  in  the  hall  was  — 
Father. 

I  guess  he  was  as  much  surprised  as  I  was. 
Anyhow,  he  acted  so.  He  just  stood  stock-still 
and  stared,  his  face  turning  all  kinds  of  colors. 

"You?"  he  gasped,  just  above  his  breath. 
Then  suddenly  he  seemed  to  remember.  "Why, 
yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  You  are  here,  are  n't  you? 
How  do  you  do,  Mary?" 

He  came  up  then  and  held  out  his  hand,  and 
I  thought  that  was  all  he  was  going  to  do.  But 
after  a  funny  little  hesitation  he  stooped  and 
kissed  my  forehead.  Then  he  turned  and  went 
into  the  library  with  very  quick  steps,  and  I  did 
n't  see  him  again  till  at  the  supper-table. 

At  the  supper-table  he  said  again,  "How  do 
you  do,  Mary?"  Then  he  seemed  to  forget  all 
about  me.  At  least  he  did  n't  say  anything  more 
to  me;  but  three  or  four  times,  when  I  glanced 
up,  I  found  him  looking  at  me.  But  just  as  soon 
as  I  looked  back  at  him  he  turned  his  eyes  away 
and  cleared  his  throat,  and  began  to  eat  or  to  talk 
to  Aunt  Jane. 

After  dinner  —  I  mean  supper  —  he  went  out 
to  the  observatory,  just  as  he  always  used  to. 
Aunt  Jane  said  her  head  ached  and  she  was  going 
to  bed.  I  said  I  guessed  I  would  step  over  to  Car- 
rie Hey  wood's;  but  Aunt  Jane  said,  certainly  not; 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  79 

that  I  was  much  too  young  to  be  running  around 
nights  in  the  dark.  Nights !  And  it  was  only  seven 
o'clock,  and  not  dark  at  all!  But  of  course  I 
could  n't  go. 

Aunt  Jane  went  upstairs,  and  I  was  left  alone. 
I  did  n't  feel  a  bit  like  reading;  besides,  there  was 
n't  a  book  or  a  magazine  anywhere  asking  you 
to  read.  They  just  shrieked,  "Touch me  not!" 
behind  the  glass  doors  in  the  library.  I  hate  sew- 
ing. I  mean  Marie  hates  it.  Aunt  Jane  says 
Mary 's  got  to  learn. 

For  a  time  I  just  walked  around  the  different 
rooms  downstairs,  looking  at  the  chairs  and  ta- 
bles and  rugs  all  just  so,  as  if  they  'd  been  meas- 
ured with  a  yardstick.  Marie  jerked  up  a  shade 
and  pushed  a  chair  crooked  and  kicked  a  rug 
up  at  one  corner;  but  Mary  put  them  all  back 
properly  —  so  there  was  n't  any  fun  in  that  for 
long. 

After  a  while  I  opened  the  parlor  door  and 
peeked  in.  They  used  to  keep  it  open  when 
Mother  was  here;  but  Aunt  Jane  doesn't  use 
it.  I  knew  where  the  electric  push  button  was, 
though,  and  I  turned  on  the  light. 

It  used  to  be  an  awful  room,  and  it 's  worse 
now,  on  account  of  its  shut-up  look.  Before  I  got 
the  light  on,  the  chairs  and  sofas  loomed  up  like 
ghosts  in  their  linen  covers.  And  when  the  light 
did  come  on,  I  saw  that  all  the  old  shiver  places 


80  MARY  MARIE 

were  there.  Not  one  was  missing.  Great-Grand- 
father Anderson's  coffin  plate  on  black  velvet, 
the  wax  cross  and  flowers  that  had  been  used  at 
three  Anderson  funerals,  the  hair  wreath  made 
of  all  the  hair  of  seventeen  dead  Andersons  and 
five  live  ones  —  no,  no,  I  don't  mean  all  the  hair, 
but  hair  from  all  seventeen  and  five.  Nurse 
Sarah  used  to  tell  me  about  it. 

Well,  as  I  said,  all  the  shiver  places  were  there, 
and  I  shivered  again  as  I  looked  at  them;  then  I 
crossed  over  to  Mother's  old  piano,  opened  it, 
and  touched  the  keys.  I  love  to  play.  There  was 
n't  any  music  there,  but  I  don't  need  music  for 
lots  of  my  pieces.  I  know  them  by  heart  —  only 
they  're  all  gay  and  lively,  and  twinkly-toe  dancy. 
Marie  music.  I  don't  know  a  one  that  would  be 
proper  for  Mary  to  play. 

But  I  was  just  tingling  to  play  something,  and 
I  remembered  that  Father  was  in  the  observa- 
tory, and  Aunt  Jane  upstairs  in  the  other  part  of 
the  house  where  she  could  n't  possibly  hear.  So 
I  began  to  play.  I  played  the  very  slowest  piece 
I  had,  and  I  played  softly  at  first;  but  I  know  I 
forgot,  and  I  know  I  had  n't  played  two  pieces 
before  I  was  having  the  best  time  ever,  and  mak- 
ing all  the  noise  I  wanted  to. 

Then  all  6f  a  sudden  I  had  a  funny  feeling  as 
if  somebody  somewhere  was  watching  me;  but 
I  just  could  n't  turn  around.  I  stopped  playing, 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  81 

though,  at  the  end  of  that  piece,  and  then  I 
looked;  but  there  was  n't  anybody  in  sight.  But 
the  wax  cross  was  there,  and  the  coffin  plate,  and 
that  awful  hair  wreath;  and  suddenly  I  felt  as  if 
that  room  was  just  full  of  folks  with  great  staring 
eyes.  I  fairly  shook  with  shivers  then,  but  I  man- 
aged to  shut  the  piano  and  get  over  to  the  door 
where  the  light  was.  Then,  a  minute  later,  out 
in  the  big  silent  hall,  I  crept  on  tiptoe  toward  the 
stairs.  I  knew  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  why  I  'd  felt 
somebody  was  listening.  There  was.  Across  the 
hall  in  the  library  in  the  big  chair  before  the  fire 
sat  —  Father  !  And  for  'most  a  whole  half -hour  I 
had  been  banging  away  at  that  piano  on  marches 
and  dance  music !  My !  But  I  held  my  breath  and 
stopped  short,  I  can  tell  you.  But  he  did  n't  move 
nor  turn,  and  a  minute  later  I  was  safely  by  the 
door  and  halfway  up  the  stairs. 

I  stayed  in  my  room  the  rest  of  that  evening; 
and  for  the  second  time  since  I've  been  here  I 
cried  myself  to  sleep. 

Another  week  later. 

Well,  I  've  got  them  —  those  brown  and  blue 
serge  dresses  and  the  calfskin  boots.  My,  but  I 
hope  they're  stiff  and  homely  enough  —  all  of 
them!  And  hot,  too.  Aunt  Jane  did  say  to-day 
that  she  did  n't  know  but  what  she  'd  made  a 
mistake  not  to  get  gingham  dresses.  But,  then, 


82  MARY  MARIE 

she  'd  have  to  get  the  gingham  later,  anyway,  she 
said;  then  I'd  have  both. 

Well,  they  can't  be  worse  than  the  serge.  That 's 
sure.  I  hate  the  serge.  They're  awfully  homely. 
Still,  I  don't  know  but  it 's  just  as  well.  Certainly 
it's  lots  easier  to  be  Mary  in  a  brown  serge  and 
clumpy  boots  than  it  is  in  the  soft,  fluffy  things 
Marie  used  to  wear.  You  could  n't  be  Marie  in 
these  things.  Honestly,  I'm  feeling  real  Maryish 
these  days. 

I  wonder  if  that's  why  the  girls  seem  so 
queer  at  school.  They  are  queer.  Three  times 
lately  I  've  come  up  to  a  crowd  of  girls  and 
heard  them  stop  talking  right  off  short.  They 
colored  up,  too;  and  pretty  quick  they  began 
to  slip  away,  one  by  one,  till  there  wasn't 
anybody  left  but  just  me,  just  as  they  used  to 
do  in  Boston.  But  of  course  it  can't  be  for  the 
same  reason  here,  for  they  've  known  all  along 
about  the  divorce  and  haven't  minded  it  at 
all. 

I  heard  this  morning  that  Stella  May  hew  had 
a  party  last  night.  But  /  did  n't  get  invited.  Of 
course,  you  can't  always  ask  everybody  to  your 
parties,  but  this  was  a  real  big  party,  and  I  have 
n't  found  a  girl  in  school,  yet,  that  was  n't  in- 
vited —  but  me.  But  I  guess  it  was  n't  anything, 
after  all.  Stella  is  a  new  girl  that  has  come  here 
to  live  since  I  went  away.  Her  folks  are  rich,  and 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  83 

she 's  very  popular,  and  of  course  she  has  loads 
of  friends  she  had  to  invite;  and  she  does  n't 
know  me  very  well.  Probably  that  was  it.  And 
maybe  I  just  imagine  it  about  the  other  girls, 
too.  Perhaps  it 's  the  brown  serge  dress.  Still,  it 
can't  be  that,  for  this  is  the  first  day  I  've  worn 
it.  But,  as  I  said,  I  feel  Maryish  already. 

I  have  n't  dared  to  touch  the  piano  since  that 
night  a  week  ago,  only  once  when  Aunt  Jane  was 
at  a  missionary  meeting,  and  I  knew  Father  was 
over  to  the  college.  But  did  n't  I  have  a  good  time 
then?  I  just  guess  I  did! 

Aunt  Jane  does  n't  care  for  music.  Besides,  it 's 
noisy,  she  says,  and  would  be  likely  to  disturb 
Father.  So  I'm  not  to  keep  on  with  my  music 
lessons  here.  She 's  going  to  teach  me  to  sew  in- 
stead. She  says  sewing  is  much  more  sensible  and 
useful. 

Sensible  and  useful !  I  wonder  how  many  times 
I've  heard  those  words  since  I've  been  here.  And 
durable,  too.  And  nourishing.  That's  another 
word.  Honestly,  Marie  is  getting  awfully  tired 
of  Mary's  sensible  sewing  and  dusting,  and  her 
durable  clumpy  shoes  and  stuffy  dresses,  and  her 
nourishing  oatmeal  and  whole-wheat  bread.  But 
there,  what  can  you  do?  I'm  trying  to  remember 
that  it 's  different,  anyway,  and  that  I  said  I  liked 
something  different. 

I  don't  see  much  of  Father.  Still,  there  's  some- 


84  MARY  MARIE 

thing  kind  of  queer  about  it,  after  all.  He  only 
speaks  to  me  about  twice  a  day  —  just  "Good- 
morning,  Mary,"  and  "  Good-night."  And  so  far  as 
most  of  his  actions  are  concerned  you  would  n't 
think  by  them  that  he  knew  I  was  in  the  house. 
Yet,  over  and  over  again  at  the  table,  and  at 
times  when  I  did  n't  even  know  he  was  'round, 
I've  found  him  watching  me,  and  with  such  a 
queer,  funny  look  in  his  eyes.  Then,  very  quickly 
always,  he  looks  right  away. 

But  last  night  he  did  n't.  And  that 's  especially 
what  I  wanted  to  write  about  to-day.  And  this 
is  the  way  it  happened. 

It  was  after  supper,  and  I  had  gone  into  the 
library.  Father  had  gone  out  to  the  observatory 
as  usual,  and  Aunt  Jane  had  gone  upstairs  to  her 
room  as  usual,  and  as  usual  I  was  wandering 
'round  looking  for  something  to  do.  I  wanted  to 
play  on  the  piano,  but  I  did  n't  dare  to  —  not 
with  all  those  dead-hair  and  wax-flower  folks 
in  the  parlor  watching  me,  and  the  chance  of 
Father's  coming  in  as  he  did  before. 

I  was  standing  in  the  window  staring  out  at 
nothing  —  it  was  n't  quite  dark  yet  —  when 
again  I  had  that  queer  feeling  that  somebody  was 
looking  at  me.  I  turned  —  and  there  was  Father. 
He  had  come  in  and  was  sitting  in  the  big  chair 
by  the  table.  But  this  time  he  did  n't  look  right 
away  as  usual  and  give  me  a  chance  to  slip  quietly 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  85 

out  of  the  room,  as  I  always  had  before.  Instead 
he  said : 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  Mary?" 

"N-nothing."  I  know  I  stammered.  It  always 
scares  me  to  talk  to  Father. 

"Nonsense!"  Father  frowned  and  hitched  in 
his  chair.  Father  always  hitches  in  his  chair  when 
he's  irritated  and  nervous.  "You  can't  be  doing 
nothing.  Nobody  but  a  dead  man  does  nothing  — 
and  we  are  n't  so  sure  about  him.  What  are  you 
doing,  Mary?" 

"Just  1-looking  out  the  window." 

"Thank you.  That 's  better.  Come  here.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you." 

"Yes,  Father." 

I  went,  of  course,  at  once,  and  sat  down  in  the 
chair  near  him.  He  hitched  again  in  his  seat. 

"  Why  don't  you  do  something  —  read,  sew, 
knit?"  he  demanded.  "Why  do  I  always  find  you 
moping  around,  doing  nothing?" 

Just  like  that  he  said  it;  and  when  he  had  just 
told  me  — 

"Why,  Father!"  I  cried;  and  I  know  that  I 
showed  how  surprised  I  was.  "I  thought  you 
just  said  I  could  n't  do  nothing  —  that  nobody 
could!" 

"Eh?  What?  Tut,  tut!"  He  seemed  very  an- 
gry at  first;  then  suddenly  he  looked  sharply  into 
my  face.  Next,  if  you  '11  believe  it,  he  laughed  — 


86  MARY  MARIE 

the  queer  little  chuckle  under  his  breath  that  I  Ve 
heard  him  give  two  or  three  times  when  there  was 
something  he  thought  was  funny.  "Humph!"  he 
grunted.  Then  he  gave  me  another  sharp  look 
out  of  his  eyes,  and  said:  "I  don't  think  you 
meant  that  to  be  quite  so  impertinent  as  it 
sounded,  Mary,  so  we  '11  let  it  pass  —  this  time. 
I'll  put  my  question  this  way:  Don't  you  ever 
knit  or  read  or  sew?" 

"I  do  sew  every  day  in  Aunt  Jane's  room,  ten 
minutes  hemming,  ten  minutes  seaming,  and  ten 
minutes  basting  patchwork  squares  together.  I 
don't  know  how  to  knit." 

"How  about  reading?  Don't  you  care  for 
reading?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  do.  I  love  it!"  I  cried.  "And 
I  do  read  lots  —  at  home." 

"At  —  home?" 

I  knew  then,  of  course,  that  I  'd  made  another 
awful  break.  There  was  n't  any  smile  around 
Father's  eyes  now,  and  his  lips  came  together 
hard  and  thin  over  that  last  word. 

"At  —  at  my  home,"  I  stammered.  "I  mean, 
my  other  home." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Father.  Then,  after  a 
minute:  "But  why,  pray,  can't  you  read  here? 
I'm  sure  there  are  —  books  enough."  He  flour- 
ished his  hands  toward  the  bookcases  all  around 
the  room. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  87 

"Oh,  I  do  —  a  little;  but,  you  see,  I'm  so 
afraid  I'll  leave  some  of  them  out  when  I'm 
through,"  I  explained. 

"Well,  what  of  it?  What  if  you  do?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Why,  Father  /"  I  tried  to  show  by  the  way  I 
said  it  that  he  knew  —  of  course  he  knew.  But 
he  made  me  tell  him  right  out  that  Aunt  Jane 
would  n't  like  it,  and  that  he  would  n't  like  it, 
and  that  the  books  always  had  to  be  kept  exactly 
where  they  belonged. 

"Well,  why  not?  Why  shouldn't  they?"  he 
asked  then,  almost  crossly,  and  hitching  again 
in  his  chair.  "Aren't  books  down  there  —  in 
Boston  —  kept  where  they  belong,  pray?" 

It  was  the  first  time  since  I  'd  come  that  he  'd 
ever  mentioned  Boston;  and  I  almost  jumped 
out  of  my  chair  when  I  heard  him.  But  I  soon 
saw  it  was  n't  going  to  be  the  last,  for  right  then 
and  there  he  began  to  question  me,  even  worse 
than  Aunt  Jane  had. 

He  wanted  to  know  everything,  everything;  all 
about  the  house,  with  its  cushions  and  cozy  cor- 
ners and  curtains  'way  up,  and  books  left  around 
easy  to  get,  and  magazines,  and  Baby  Lester,  and 
the  fun  we  had  romping  with  him,  and  everything. 
Only,  of  course,  I  did  n't  mention  Mother.  Aunt 
Jane  had  told  me  not  to  —  not  anywhere;  and  to 
be  specially  careful  before  Father.  But  what  can 


88  MARY  MARIE 

you  do  when  he  asks  you  himself,  right  out  plain? 
And  that's  what  he  did. 

He'd  been  up  on  his  feet,  tramping  up  and 
down  the  room  all  the  time  I'd  been  talking;  and 
now,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  wheels  around  and  stops 
short. 

"How  is  —  your  mother,  Mary?"  he  asks. 
And  it  was  just  as  if  he'd  opened  the  door  to 
another  room,  he  had  such  a  whole  lot  of  ques- 
tions to  ask  after  that.  And  when  he  'd  finished  he 
knew  everything:  what  time  we  got  up  and  went 
to  bed,  and  what  we  did  all  day,  and  the  parties 
and  dinners  and  auto  rides,  and  the  folks  that 
came  such  a  lot  to  see  Mother. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  —  asking 
questions,  I  mean.  He  stopped  just  as  suddenly 
as  he  'd  begun.  Why,  I  was  right  in  the  middle 
of  telling  about  a  concert  for  charity  we  got  up 
just  before  I  came  away,  and  how  Mother  had 
practiced  for  days  and  days  with  the  young  man 
who  played  the  violin,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
Father  jerked  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and 
said: 

"There,  there,  Mary,  it's  getting  late.  You've 
talked  enough  —  too  much.  Now  go  to  bed. 
Good-night." 

Talked  too  much,  indeed!  And  who'd  been 
making  me  do  all  the  talking,  I  should  like  to 
know?  But,  of  course,  I  could  n't  say  anything. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  89 

That's  the  unfair  part  of  it.  Old  folks  can  say 
anything,  anything  they  want  to  to  you,  but  you 
can't  say  a  thing  back  to  them  —  not  a  thing. 

And  so  I  went  to  bed.  And  the  next  day  all  that 
Father  said  to  me  was,  "Good-morning,  Mary/5 
and,  "Good-night,"  just  as  he  had  ever  since  I 
came.  And  that 's  all  he 's  said  yesterday  and  to- 
day. But  he 's  looked  at  me.  He 's  looked  at  me  a 
lot.  I  know,  because  at  mealtimes  and  others, 
when  he 's  been  in  the  room  with  me,  I  've  looked 
up  and  found  his  eyes  on  me.  Funny,  is  n't  it? 

Two  weeks  later. 

Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  have  anything  very 
special  to  say.  Still,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  write 
something;  so  I'll  put  down  what  little  there  is. 

Of  course,  there  does  n't  so  much  happen  here, 
anyway,  as  there  does  at  home  —  I  mean  in  Bos- 
ton. (I  must  stop  calling  it  home  down  to  Boston 
as  if  this  was  n't  home  at  all.  It  makes  Aunt  Jane 
very,  very  angry,  and  I  don't  think  Father  likes 
it  very  well.)  But,  as  I  was  saying,  there  really 
does  n't  so  much  happen  here  as  there  does  down 
to  Boston;  and  it  is  n't  nearly  so  interesting.  But, 
there !  I  suppose  I  must  n't  expect  it  to  be  inter- 
esting. I  'm  Mary  now,  not  Marie. 

There  are  n't  any  teas  and  dinners  and  pretty 
ladies  and  music  and  soulful-eyed  prospective 
suitors  here.  My!  Would  n't  Aunt  Jane  have  four 


90  MARY  MARIE 

fits?  And  Father,  too.  But  I'd  just  like  to  put  one 
of  Mother's  teas  with  the  little  cakes  and  flowers 
and  talk  and  tinkling  laughs  down  in  Aunt  Jane's 
parlor,  and  then  watch  what  happened.  Oh,  of 
course,  the  party  could  n't  stand  it  long  —  not  in 
there  with  the  hair  wreath  and  the  coffin  plate. 
But  they  could  stand  it  long  enough  for  Father 
to  thunder  from  the  library,  "Jane,  what  in 
Heaven's  name  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  And 
for  Aunt  Jane  to  give  one  look  at  the  kind  of 
clothes  real  folks  wear,  and  then  flee  with  her 
hands  to  her  ears  and  her  eyes  upraised  to  the 
ceiling.  Would  n't  it  be  fun? 

But,  there!  What's  the  use  of  imagining  per- 
fectly crazy,  impossible  things  like  that?  We 
have  n't  had  a  thing  here  in  that  parlor  since  I 
came  but  one  missionary  meeting  and  one  La- 
dies' Aid  Sewing  Circle;  and  after  the  last  one 
(the  Sewing  Circle)  Aunt  Jane  worked  a  whole 
day  picking  threads  off  the  carpet,  and  smooth- 
ing down  the  linen  covers  because  they  'd  got  so 
mussed  up.  And  I  heard  her  tell  the  hired  girl 
that  she  should  n't  have  that  Sewing  Circle  here 
again  in  a  hurry,  and  when  she  did  have  them 
they  'd  have  to  sew  in  the  dining-room  with 
a  sheet  spread  down  to  catch  the  threads.  My! 
but  I  would  like  to  see  Aunt  Jane  with  one  of 
Mother's  teas  in  her  parlor! 

I  can't  see  as  Father  has  changed  much  of  any 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  91 

these  last  two  weeks.  He  still  does  n't  pay  much 
of  any  attention  to  me,  though  I  do  find  him 
looking  at  me  sometimes,  just  as  if  he  was  try- 
ing to  make  up  his  mind  about  something.  He 
does  n't  say  hardly  anything  to  me,  only  once  or 
twice  when  he  got  to  asking  questions  again 
about  Boston  and  Mother. 

The  last  time  I  told  him  all  about  Mr.  Harlow, 
and  he  was  so  interested!  I  just  happened  to  men- 
tion his  name,  and  he  wanted  to  know  right  away 
if  it  was  Mr.  Carl  Harlow,  and  if  I  knew  whether 
Mother  had  ever  known  him  before.  And  of 
course  I  told  him  right  away  that  it  was  —  the 
same  one  she  was  engaged  to  before  she  was  en- 
gaged to  him. 

Father  looked  funny  and  kind  of  grunted  and 
said,  yes,  yes,  he  knew.  Then  he  said,  "That  will 
do,  Mary."  And  he  began  to  read  his  book  again. 
But  he  never  turned  a  page,  and  it  was  n't  five 
minutes  before  he  got  up  and  walked  around  the 
room,  picking  out  books  from  the  bookcases  and 
putting  them  right  back,  and  picking  up  things 
from  the  mantel  and  putting  them  right  back. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and  asked  with  a  kind  of 
of-course-I-don't-care  air : 

"Did  you  say  you  saw  quite  a  little  of  —  this 
Harlow  fellow?" 

But  he  did  care.  I  know  he  did.  He  was  real  in- 
terested. I  could  see  that  he  was.  And  so  I  told 


92  MARY  MARIE 

him  everything,  all  about  how  he  came  there  to 
the  teas,  and  sent  her  flowers  and  candy,  and  was 
getting  a  divorce  himself,  and  what  he  said  on  the 
sofa  that  day,  and  how  Mother  answered.  As  I 
said,  I  told  him  everything,  only  I  was  careful 
not  to  call  Mr.  Harlow  a  prospective  suitor,  of 
course.  I  remembered  too  well  what  Aunt  Hattie 
had  said.  Father  did  n't  say  anything  when  I  got 
through.  He  just  got  up  and  left  the  room,  and 
pretty  quick  I  saw  him  crossing  the  lawn  to  the 
observatory. 

I  guess  there  are  n't  any  prospective  suitors 
here.  I  mean,  I  guess  Father  is  n't  a  prospective 
suitor  —  anyhow,  not  yet.  (Of  course,  it 's  the 
man  that  has  to  be  the  suitor.)  He  does  n't  go 
anywhere,  only  over  to  the  college  and  out  to  the 
observatory.  I've  watched  so  to  see.  I  wanted 
specially  to  know,  for  of  course  if  he  was  being  a 
prospective  suitor  to  any  one,  she  'd  be  my  new 
mother,  maybe.  And  I  'm  going  to  be  awfully  par- 
ticular about  any  new  mother  coming  into  the 
house. 

A  whole  lot  more,  even,  depends  on  mothers 
than  on  fathers,  you  know;  and  if  you're  going  to 
have  one  all  ready-made  thrust  upon  you,  you 
are  sort  of  anxious  to  know  what  kind  she  is. 
Some  way,  I  don't  think  I'd  like  a  new  mother 
even  as  well  as  I  'd  like  a  new  father;  and  I  don't 
believe  I'd  like  him  very  well. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  93 

Of  course,  there  are  quite  a  lot  of  ladies  here 
that  Father  could  have.  There  are  several  pretty 
teachers  in  the  schools,  and  some  nice  unmarried 
ladies  in  the  church.  And  there's  Miss  Parmelia 
Snow.  She  's  Professor  Snow's  sister.  She  wears 
glasses  and  is  terribly  learned.  Maybe  he  would 
like  her.  But,  mercy !  I  should  n't. 

Then  there's  Miss  Grace  Ann  Sanborn.  She's 
fat,  and  awfully  jolly.  She  comes  here  a  lot  lately 
to  see  Aunt  Jane.  I  don't  know  why.  They  don't 
belong  to  the  same  church,  or  anything.  But  she 
"runs  over,"  as  she  calls  it,  almost  every  after- 
noon just  a  little  before  dinner  —  I  mean  supper. 

Mrs.  Darling  used  to  come  then,  too,  when  I 
first  came;  but  she  comes  over  evenings  now 
more.  Maybe  it 's  because  she  does  n't  like  Miss 
Grace  Ann.  I  don't  think  she  does  like  her,  for 
every  time  she  saw  her,  she'd  say:  "Oh,  you  ?  So 
you're  here!"  And  then  she'd  turn  and  talk  to 
Aunt  Jane  and  simply  ignore  Miss  Grace  Ann. 
And  pretty  quick  she  'd  get  up  and  go.  And  now 
she  comes  evenings.  She 's  fixing  over  her  house, 
and  she  runs  and  asks  Aunt  Jane's  advice  about 
every  little  thing.  She  asks  Father's,  too,  every 
chance  she  gets,  when  she  sees  him  in  the  hall  or 
on  the  front  steps.  I  heard  her  tell  Aunt  Jane  she 
considered  Professor  Anderson  a  man  of  most 
excellent  taste  and  judgment. 

I   suppose   Mrs.  Darling  could  be   my  new 


94  MARY  MARIE 

mother.  She's  a  widow.  Her  husband  died  last 
year.  She  is  very  well  off  now  that  her  husband  is 
dead,  I  heard  Aunt  Jane  say  one  day.  She  meant 
well  off  in  money  —  quite  a  lot  of  it,  you  know.  I 
thought  she  meant  well  off  because  he  was  dead 
and  she  did  n't  have  to  live  with  him  any  more, 
and  I  said  so  to  Aunt  Jane.  (He  was  a  cross  man, 
and  very  stern,  as  everybody  knew.)  But,  dear 
suz  me!  Aunt  Jane  was  awfully  shocked,  and  said 
certainly  not;  that  she  meant  Mr.  Darling  had 
left  his  wife  a  great  deal  of  money. 

Then  she  talked  very  stern  and  solemn  to  me, 
and  said  that  I  must  not  think  just  because  my 
poor  dear  father's  married  life  had  ended  in  such 
a  wretched  tragedy  that  every  other  home  had 
such  a  skeleton  in  the  closet. 

/  grew  stern  and  dignified  and  solemn  then.  I 
knew,  of  course,  what  she  meant.  I'm  no  child. 
She  meant  Mother.  She  meant  that  Mother,  my 
dear  blessed  mother,  was  the  skeleton  in  their 
closet.  And  of  course  I  was  n't  going  to  stand 
there  and  hear  that,  and  not  say  a  word. 

But  I  did  n't  say  just  a  word.  I  said  a  good 
many  words.  I  won't  try  to  put  them  all  down 
here;  but  I  told  her  quietly,  in  a  firm  voice,  and 
with  no  temper  (showing),  that  I  guessed  Father 
was  just  as  much  of  a  skeleton  in  Mother's  closet 
as  she  was  in  his;  and  that  if  she  could  see  how 
perfectly  happy  my  mother  was  now  she  'd  under- 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  95 

stand  a  little  of  what  my  father's  skeleton  had 
done  to  her  all  those  years  she'd  had  to  live 
with  it. 

I  said  a  lot  more,  but  before  I'd  got  half  fin- 
ished with  what  I  wanted  to  say,  I  got  to  crying, 
so  I  just  had  to  run  out  of  the  room. 

That  night  I  heard  Aunt  Jane  tell  Mrs.  Dar- 
ling that  the  worst  feature  of  the  whole  deplora- 
ble situation  was  the  effect  on  the  child's  mind, 
and  the  wretched  conception  it  gave  her  of  the 
sacredness  of  the  marriage  tie,  or  something  like 
that.  And  Mrs.  Darling  sighed,  and  said,  oh,  and 
ah,  and  the  pity  of  it. 

I  don't  like  Mrs.  Darling. 

Of  course,  as  I  said  before,  Mrs.  Darling  could 
be  my  new  mother,  being  a  widow,  so.  But, 
mercy!  I  hope  she  won't.  I'd  rather  have  Miss 
Grace  Ann  than  her,  and  I  should  n't  be  crazy 
about  having  Miss  Grace  Ann. 

Well,  I  guess  there's  nothing  more  to  write. 
Things  at  school  are  just  the  same,  only  more  so. 
The  girls  are  getting  so  they  act  almost  as  bad  as 
those  down  to  Boston  in  the  school  where  I  went 
before  I  changed.  Of  course,  maybe  it's  the  di- 
vorce here,  same  as  it  was  there.  But  I  don't  see 
how  it  can  be  that  here.  WTiy,  they've  known  it 
from  the  very  first! 

Oh,  dear  suz  me!  How  I  do  wish  I  could  see 
Mother  to-night  and  have  her  take  me  in  her 


96  MARY  MARIE 

arms  and  kiss  me.  I'm  so  tired  of  being  Mary 
'way  off  up  here  where  nobody  cares  or  wants  me. 
Even  Father  does  n't  want  me,  not  really  want 
me.  I  know  he  does  n't.  I  don't  see  why  he  keeps 
me,  only  I  suppose  he  'd  be  ashamed  not  to  take 
me  his  six  months  as  long  as  the  court  gave  me  to 
him  for  that  time. 

Another  two  weeks  later. 

I'm  so  angry  I  can  hardly  write,  and  at  the 
same  time  I  'm  so  angry  I  've  just  got  to  write.  I 
can't  talk.  There  is  n't  anybody  to  talk  to;  and 
I  've  got  to  tell  somebody.  So  I  'm  going  to  tell  it 
here. 

I  've  found  out  now  what 's  the  matter  with  the 
girls  —  you  know  I  said  there  was  something  the 
matter  with  them;  that  they  acted  queer  and 
stopped  talking  when  I  came  up,  and  faded  away 
till  there  was  n't  anybody  but  me  left;  and  about 
the  party  Stella  Mayhew  had  and  did  n't  invite 
me. 

Well,  it 's  been  getting  worse  and  worse.  Other 
girls  have  had  parties,  and  more  and  more  often 
the  girls  have  stopped  talking  and  have  looked 
queer  when  I  came  up.  We  got  up  a  secret  society 
and  called  it  the  "Tony  Ten,"  and  I  was  going  to 
be  its  president.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  one  day  I 
found  there  was  n't  any  Tony  Ten  —  only  Carrie 
Hey  wood  and  me.  The  other  eight  had  formed 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  97 

another  society  and  Stella  Mayhew  was  their 
president. 

I  told  Carrie  we  would  n't  care;  that  we'd  just 
change  it  and  call  it  the  "Tony  Two";  and  that 
two  was  a  lot  more  exclusive  than  ten,  anyway. 
But  I  did  care,  and  Carrie  did.  I  knew  she  did. 
And  I  know  it  better  now  because  last  night  — 
she  told  me.  You  see  things  have  been  getting 
simply  unbearable  these  last  few  days,  and  it  got 
so  it  looked  as  if  I  was  n't  even  going  to  have 
Carrie  left.  She  began  to  act  queer  and  I  accused 
her  of  it,  and  told  her  if  she  did  n't  want  to  belong 
to  the  Tony  Two  she  need  n't.  That  I  did  n't 
care;  that  I'd  be  a  secret  society  all  by  myself. 
But  I  cried.  I  could  n't  help  crying;  and  she  knew 
I  did  —  care.  Then  she  began  to  cry;  and  to-day, 
after  school,  we  went  to  walk  up  on  the  hill  to  the 
big  rock;  and  there  —  she  told  me.  And  it  was 
the  divorce. 

And  it's  all  that  Stella  Mayhew  —  the  new 
girl.  Her  mother  found  out  I  was  divorced  (I 
mean  Mother  was)  and  she  told  Stella  not  to  play 
with  me,  nor  speak  to  me,  nor  have  a  thing  to  do 
with  me.  And  I  said  to  Carrie,  all  right!  Who 
cared?  /  did  n't.  That  I  never  had  liked  that 
Mayhew  girl,  anyway.  But  Carrie  said  that 
was  n't  all.  She  said  Stella  had  got  to  be  real  pop- 
ular before  I  came;  that  her  folks  had  lots  of 
money,  and  she  always  had  candy  and  could 


98  MARY  MARIE 

treat  to  ice-cream  and  auto  rides,  and  everybody 
with  her  was  sure  of  a  good  time.  She  had  parties, 
too  —  lots  of  them;  and  of  course,  all  the  girls 
and  boys  liked  that. 

Well,  when  I  came  everything  was  all  right  till 
Stella's  mother  found  out  about  the  divorce,  and 
then — well,  then  things  were  different.  First  Stella 
contented  herself  with  making  fun  of  me,  Carrie 
said.  She  laughed  at  the  serge  dresses  and  big 
homely  shoes,  and  then  she  began  on  my  name, 
and  said  the  idea  of  being  called  Mary  by  Father 
and  Marie  by  Mother,  and  that  't  was  just  like 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  (That 's  a  story,  Carrie 
says.  I  'm  going  to  read  it,  if  Father 's  got  it.  If 
there  ever  was  another  Mary  and  Marie  all  in  one 
in  the  world  I  want  to  know  what  she  did.)  But 
Carrie  says  the  poking  fun  at  me  did  n't  make 
much  difference  with  the  girls,  so  Stella  tried 
something  else.  She  not  only  would  n't  speak  to 
me  herself,  or  invite  me,  or  anything,  but  she 
told  all  the  girls  that  they  could  n't  go  with  her 
and  me,  too.  That  they  might  take  their  choice. 
And  Carrie  said  some  of  them  did  choose  and 
stayed  with  me;  but  they  lost  all  the  good  times 
and  ice-cream  and  parties  and  rides  and  every- 
thing; and  so  one  by  one  they  dropped  me  and 
went  back  to  Stella,  and  now  there  was  n't  any- 
body left,  only  her,  Carrie.  And  then  she  began 
to  cry. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  99 

And  when  she  stopped  speaking,  and  I  knew 
all,  and  saw  her  crying  there  before  me,  and 
thought  of  my  dear  blessed  mother,  I  was  so 
angry  I  could  scarcely  speak.  I  just  shook  with 
righteous  indignation.  And  in  my  most  superb, 
haughty,  and  disdainful  manner  I  told  Carrie 
Hey  wood  to  dry  her  tears;  that  she  need  n't 
trouble  herself  any  further,  nor  worry  about 
losing  any  more  ice-cream  nor  parties.  That  I 
would  hereto  declare  our  friendship  null  and  void, 
and  this  day  set  my  hand  and  seal  to  never  speak 
to  her  again,  if  she  liked,  and  considered  that 
necessary  to  keeping  the  acquaintance  of  the 
precious  Stella. 

But  she  cried  all  the  more  at  that,  and  flung 
herself  upon  me,  and,  of  course,  I  began  to  cry, 
too  —  and  you  can't  stay  superb  and  haughty 
and  disdainful  when  you're  all  the  time  trying  to 
hunt  up  a  handkerchief  to  wipe  away  the  tears 
that  are  coursing  down  your  wan  cheeks.  And  of 
course  I  did  n't.  We  had  a  real  good  cry  together, 
and  vowed  we  loved  each  other  better  than  ever, 
and  nobody  could  come  between  us,  not  even 
bringing  a  chocolate-fudge-marshmallow  college 
ice  —  which  we  both  adore.  But  I  told  her  that 
she  would  be  all  right,  just  the  same,  for  of  course 
I  should  never  step  my  foot  inside  of  that  school- 
house  again.  That  I  could  n't,  out  of  respect  to 
Mother.  That  I  should  tell  Aunt  Jane  that  to- 


100  MARY  MARIE 

morrow  morning.  There  is  n't  any  other  school 
here,  so  they  can't  send  me  anywhere  else.  But 
it 's  'most  time  for  school  to  close,  anyway.  There 
are  only  two  weeks  more. 

But  I  don't  think  that  will  make  any  difference 
to  Aunt  Jane.  It 's  the  principle  of  the  thing.  It 's 
always  the  principle  of  the  thing  with  Aunt  Jane. 
She  '11  be  very  angry,  I  know.  Maybe  she  '11  send 
me  home.  Oh,  I  hope  she  will! 

Well,  I  shall  tell  her  to-morrow,  anyway.  Then 
—  we  '11  see. 

One  day  later. 

And,  dear,  dear,  what  a  day  it  has  been! 

I  told  her  this  morning.  She  was  very  angry. 
She  said  at  first:  "Nonsense,  Mary,  don't  be  im- 
pertinent. Of  course  you'll  go  to  school!"  and  all 
that  kind  of  talk.  But  I  kept  my  temper.  I  did  not 
act  angry.  I  was  simply  firm  and  dignified.  And 
when  she  saw  I  really  meant  what  I  said,  and  that 
I  would  not  step  my  foot  inside  that  schoolroom 
again  —  that  it  was  a  matter  of  conscience  with 
me  —  that  I  did  not  think  it  was  right  for  me  to 
do  it,  she  simply  stared  for  a  minute,  as  if  she 
could  n't  believe  her  eyes  and  ears.  Then  she 
gasped : 

"Mary,  what  do  you  mean  by  such  talk  to  me? 
Do  you  think  I  shall  permit  this  sort  of  thing  to 
go  on  for  a  moment?" 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  101 

I  thought  then  she  was  going  to  send  me  home. 
Oh,  I  did  so  hope  she  was.  But  she  did  n't.  She 
sent  me  to  my  room. 

"You  will  stay  there  until  your  father  comes 
home  this  noon,"  she  said.  "This  is  a  matter  for 
him  to  settle." 

Father !  And  I  never  even  thought  of  her  going 
to  him  with  it.  She  was  always  telling  me  never 
to  bother  Father  with  anything,  and  I  knew  she 
did  n't  usually  ask  him  anything  about  me.  She 
settled  everything  herself.  But  this  —  and  the 
very  thing  I  did  n't  want  her  to  ask  him,  too. 
But  of  course  I  could  n't  help  myself.  That 's  the 
trouble.  Youth  is  so  helpless  in  the  clutches  of 
old  age! 

Well,  I  went  to  my  room.  Aunt  Jane  told  me  to 
meditate  on  my  sins.  But  I  did  n't.  I  meditated 
on  other  people's  sins.  /  did  n't  have  any  to  med- 
itate on.  Was  it  a  sin,  pray,  for  me  to  stand  up 
for  my  mother  and  refuse  to  associate  with  peo- 
ple who  would  n't  associate  with  me  on  account 
of  her  ?  I  guess  not ! 

I  meditated  on  Stella  May  hew  and  her  mother, 
and  on  those  silly,  faithless  girls  that  thought 
more  of  an  ice-cream  soda  than  they  did  of  jus- 
tice and  right  to  their  fellow  schoolmate.  And  I 
meditated  on  Aunt  Jane  and  her  never  giving  me 
so  much  as  a  single  kiss  since  I  came.  And  I  medi- 
tated on  how  much  better  Father  liked  stars  and 


102  MARY  MARIE 

comets  than  he  did  his  own  daughter;  and  I  med- 
itated on  what  a  cruel,  heartless  world  this  is, 
anyway,  and  what  a  pity  it  was  that  I,  so  fair  and 
young,  should  have  found  it  out  so  soon  —  right 
on  the  bank,  as  it  were,  or  where  that  brook  and 
river  meet.  And  I  wondered,  if  I  died  if  anybody 
would  care;  and  I  thought  how  beautiful  and 
pathetic  I  would  look  in  my  coffin  with  my  lily- 
white  hands  folded  on  my  breast.  And  I  hoped 
they'd  have  the  funeral  in  the  daytime,  because  if 
it  was  at  night-time  Father 'd  be  sure  to  have  a 
star  or  something  to  keep  him  from  coming.  And 
I  wanted  him  to  come.  I  wanted  him  to  feel  bad; 
and  I  meditated  on  how  bad  he  would  feel  — 
when  it  was  too  late. 

But  even  with  all  this  to  meditate  on,  it  was  an 
awfully  long  time  coming  noon;  and  they  did  n't 
call  me  down  to  dinner  even  then.  Aunt  Jane  sent 
up  two  pieces  of  bread  without  any  butter  and  a 
glass  of  water.  How  like  Aunt  Jane  —  making 
even  my  dinner  a  sin  to  meditate  on!  Only  she 
would  call  it  my  sin,  and  I  would  call  it  hers. 

Well,  after  dinner  Father  sent  for  me  to  come 
down  to  the  library.  So  I  knew  then,  of  course, 
that  Aunt  Jane  had  told  him.  I  did  n't  know  but 
she  would  wait  until  night.  Father  usually  spends 
his  hour  after  dinner  reading  in  the  library  and 
must  n't  be  disturbed.  But  evidently  to-day  Aunt 
Jane  thought  I  was  more  consequence  than  his 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  103 

reading.  Anyhow,  she  told  him,  and  he  sent  for 
me. 

My,  but  I  hated  to  go !  Fathers  and  Aunt  Janes 
are  two  different  propositions.  Fathers  have  more 
rights  and  privileges,  of  course.  Everybody  knows 
that. 

Well,  I  went  into  the  library.  Father  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  fireplace  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  He  was  plainly  angry  at  being  disturbed. 
Anybody  could  see  that.  He  began  speaking  at 
once,  the  minute  I  got  into  the  room  —  very 
cold  and  dignified. 

"Mary,  your  aunt  tells  me  you  have  been  dis- 
obedient and  disrespectful  to  her.  Have  you  any- 
thing to  say?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  said,  "No,  sir." 

What  could  I  say?  Old  folks  ask  such  senseless 
questions,  sometimes.  Naturally  I  was  n't  going 
to  say  I  had  been  disrespectful  and  disobedient 
when  I  had  n't;  and  of  course,  I  could  n't  say  I 
had  rit  been  when  Aunt  Jane  said  I  had.  That 
would  be  just  like  saying  Aunt  Jane  lied.  So,  of 
course,  I  had  nothing  to  say.  And  I  said  so. 

"But  she  declares  you  refused  to  go  back  to 
school,  Mary,"  said  Father  then. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  you  did  refuse?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  you  may  go  and  tell  her  now,  please. 


104  MARY  MARIE 

that  you  are  sorry,  and  that  you  will  go  to  school 
this  afternoon.  You  may  go  now."  And  he  turned 
to  the  table  and  picked  up  his  book. 

I  did  n't  go,  of  course.  I  just  stood  there 
twisting  my  handkerchief  in  my  fingers;  and,  of 
course,  right  away  he  saw  me.  He  had  sat  down 
then. 

"Mary,  did  n't  you  hear  me?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  sir,  but  —  Father,  I  can't  go  back  to 
that  school,"  I  choked.  And  I  began  to  cry. 

"But  I  tell  you  that  you  must." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  can't." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  defy  me  as  you  did 
your  Aunt  Jane  this  morning?  —  that  you  refuse 
to  go  back  to  school?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

For  a  minute  he  sat  and  stared  at  me  just  as 
Aunt  Jane  had  done;  then  he  lifted  his  head  and 
threw  back  his  shoulders  as  if  he  was  throwing 
off  a  heavy  weight. 

"Come,  come,  Mary,"  he  said  sternly.  "I  am 
not  a  patient  man,  and  my  temper  has  reached 
the  breaking  point.  You  will  go  back  to  school 
and  you  will  go  now.  I  mean  that,  Mary." 

"But,  Father,  I  can't"  I  choked  again;  and  I 
guess  there  was  something  in  my  face  this  time 
that  made  even  him  see.  For  again  he  just  stared 
for  a  minute,  and  then  said: 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  105 

"Mary,  what  in  the  world  does  this  mean? 
Why  can't  you  go  back?  Have  you  been  —  ex- 
pelled?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir." 

"Then  you  mean  you  won't  go  back." 

"I  mean  I  cant  —  on  account  of  Mother." 

I  would  n't  have  said  it  if  I  had  n't  had  to.  I 
did  n't  want  to  tell  him,  but  I  knew  from  the  very 
first  that  I  'd  have  to  tell  him  before  I  got  through. 
I  could  see  it  in  his  face.  And  so,  now,  with  his 
eyes  blazing  as  he  jumped  almost  out  of  his  chair 
and  exclaimed,  "Your  mother!"  I  let  it  out  and 
got  it  over  as  soon  as  possible. 

"I  mean,  on  account  of  Mother  —  that  not  for 
you,  or  Aunt  Jane,  or  anybody  will  I  go  back  to 
that  school  and  associate  with  folks  that  won't 
associate  with  me  —  on  account  of  Mother." 

And  then  I  told  it  —  all  about  the  girls,  Stella 
Mayhew,  Carrie,  and  how  they  acted,  and  what 
they  said  about  my  being  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde  because  I  was  a  Mary  and  a  Marie,  and  the 
ice-cream,  and  the  parties  they  had  to  give  up  if 
they  went  with  me.  And  I  know  I  was  crying 
so  I  could  hardly  speak  before  I  finished;  and 
Father  was  on  his  feet  tramping  up  and  down 
the  room  muttering  something  under  his  breath, 
and  looking  —  oh,  I  can't  begin  to  tell  how  he 
looked.  But  it  was  awful. 

"And  so  that 's  why  I  wish,"  I  finished  chok- 


106  MARY  MARIE 

ingly,  "  that  it  would  hurry  up  and  be  a  year,  so 
Mother  could  get  married." 

"Married! "  Like  a  flash  he  turned  and  stopped 
short,  staring  at  me. 

"Why,  yes,"  I  explained;  "for  if  she  did  get 
married,  she  would  n't  be  divorced  any  longer, 
would  she?" 

But  he  would  n't  answer.  With  a  queer  little 
noise  in  his  throat  he  turned  again  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  until  I  thought 
for  a  minute  he  'd  forgotten  I  was  there.  But  he 
had  n't.  For  after  a  while  he  stopped  again  right 
in  front  of  me. 

"So  your  mother  is  thinking  of  getting  mar- 
ried," he  said  in  a  voice  so  queer  it  sounded  as  if 
it  had  come  from  away  off  somewhere. 

But  I  shook  my  head  and  said  no,  of  course; 
and  that  I  was  very  sure  she  would  n't  till  her 
year  was  up,  and  even  then  I  did  n't  know  which 
she  'd  take,  so  I  could  n't  tell  for  sure  anything 
about  it.  But  I  hoped  she  'd  take  one  of  them,  so 
she  would  n't  be  divorced  any  longer. 

"But  you  don't  know  which  she'll  take," 
grunted  Father  again.  He  turned  then,  and  be- 
gan to  walk  up  and  down  again,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets;  and  I  did  n't  know  whether  to  go 
away  or  to  stay,  and  I  suppose  I'd  have  been 
there  now  if  Aunt  Jane  had  n't  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  library  doorway. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  107 

"Charles,  if  Mary  is  going  to  school  at  all  to- 
day it  is  high  time  she  was  starting,"  she  said. 
But  Father  did  n't  seem  to  hear.  He  was  still 
tramping  up  and  down  the  room,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"Charles!"  Aunt  Jane  raised  her  voice  and 
spoke  again.  "I  said  if  Mary  is  going  to  school  at 
ail  to-day  it  is  high  time  she  was  starting." 

"Eh?  What?"  If  you'll  believe  it,  that  man 
looked  as  dazed  as  if  he  'd  never  even  heard  of  my 
going  to  school.  Then  suddenly  his  face  changed. 
"Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Well,  er  —  Mary  is  not  go- 
ing to  school  to-day,"  he  said.  Then  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  without  another  word  strode  into 
the  hall,  got  his  hat,  and  left  the  house,  leaving 
Aunt  Jane  and  me  staring  into  each  other's  faces. 

But  I  did  n't  stay  much  longer  than  Father 
did.  I  strode  into  the  hall,  too,  by  Aunt  Jane.  But 
I  did  n't  leave  the  house.  I  came  up  here  to  my 
own  room;  and  ever  since  I've  been  writing  it  all 
down  in  my  book. 

Of  course,  I  don't  know  now  what 's  going  to 
happen  next.  But  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
Aunt  Jane's  face  when  Father  said  I  was  n't  go- 
ing to  school  to-day !  I  don't  believe  she 's  sure  yet 
that  she  heard  aright  —  though  she  did  n't  try  to 
stop  me,  or  even  speak  when  I  left  and  came  up- 
stairs. But  I  just  know  she 's  keeping  up  a  power- 
ful thinking. 


108  MARY  MARIE 

For  that  matter,  so  am  I.  What  is  going  to 
happen  next?  Have  I  got  to  go  to  school  to-mor- 
row? But  then,  of  course,  I  shan't  do  that.  Be 
sides,  I  don't  believe  Father '11  ask  me  to,  after 
what  I  said  about  Mother.  He  did  n't  like  that  — 
what  those  girls  said  —  any  better  than  I  did. 
I  'm  sure  of  that.  Why,  he  looked  simply  furious. 
But  there  is  n't  any  other  school  here  that  I  can 
be  sent  to,  and  — 

But  what 's  the  use?  I  might  surmise  and  spec- 
ulate all  day  and  not  come  anywhere  near  the 
truth.  I  must  await  —  what  the  night  will  bring 
forth,  as  they  say  in  really  truly  novels. 

Four  days  later. 

And  what  did  the  night  bring  forth?  Yes,  what 
did  it  bring!  Verily  it  brought  forth  one  thing  I 
thought  nothing  ever  could  have  brought  forth. 

It  was  like  this. 

That  night  at  the  supper-table  Aunt  Jane 
cleared  her  throat  in  the  I-am-determined-I-will- 
speak  kind  of  a  way  that  she  always  uses  when 
she  speaks  to  Father.  (Aunt  Jane  does  n't  talk 
to  Father  much  more  than  Mother  used  to.) 

"  Charles,"  she  began. 

Father  had  an  astronomy  paper  beside  his 
plate,  and  he  was  so  busy  reading  he  did  n't  hear, 
so  Aunt  Jane  had  to  speak  again  —  a  little  louder 
this  time. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  109 

"Charles,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Eh?  What?  Oh  —  er  —  yes.  Well,  Jane,  what 
is  it?"  Father  was  looking  up  with  his  I'll-be- 
patient-if-it-kills-me  air,  and  with  his  forefinger 
down  on  his  paper  to  keep  his  place. 

As  if  anybody  could  talk  to  a  person  who 's 
simply  tolerating  you  for  a  minute  like  that,  with 
his  forefinger  holding  on  to  what  he  wants  to  tend 
to !  Why,  I  actually  found  myself  being  sorry  for 
Aunt  Jane. 

She  cleared  her  throat  again. 

"It  is  understood,  of  course,  that  Mary  is  to 
go  to  school  to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose," 
she  said. 

"Why,  of  course,  of  course,"  began  Father  im- 
patiently, looking  down  at  his  paper.  "  Of  course 
she'll  go  to  — "he  stopped  suddenly.  A  complete 
change  came  to  his  face.  He  grew  red,  then  white. 
His  eyes  sort  of  flashed.  "School?"  he  said  then, 
in  a  hard,  decided  voice.  "Oh,  no;  Mary  is  not 
going  to  school  to-morrow  morning."  He  looked 
down  to  his  paper  and  began  to  read  again.  For 
him  the  subject  was  very  evidently  closed.  But 
for  Aunt  Jane  it  was  not  closed. 

"You  don't  mean,  Charles,  that  she  is  not  to 
go  to  school  at  all,  any  more,"  she  gasped. 

"Exactly."  Father  read  on  in  his  paper  with- 
out looking  up. 

"But,  Charles,  to  stop  her  school  like  this!" 


110  MARY  MARIE 

"Why  not?  It  closes  in  a  week  or  two,  any* 
way." 

Aunt  Jane's  lips  came  together  hard. 

"That 's  not  the  question  at  all,"  she  said,  cold 
like  ice.  "  Charles,  I  'm  amazed  at  you  —  yielding 
to  that  child's  whims  like  this  —  that  she  does 
n't  want  to  go  to  school!  It's  the  principle  of  the 
thing  that  I  'm  objecting  to.  Do  you  realize  what 
it  will  lead  to  —  what  it — " 

"Jane!"  With  a  jerk  Father  sat  up  straight. 
"I  realize  some  things  that  perhaps  you  do  not. 
But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I  do  not  wish 
Mary  to  go  to  school  any  more  this  spring.  That 
is  all;  and  I  think  —  it  is  sufficient." 

"Certainly."  Aunt  Jane's  lips  came  together 
again  grim  and  hard.  "Perhaps  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  say  what  she  shall  do  with  her  time." 

"Time?  Do?  Why  —  er  —  what  she  always 
does;  read,  sew,  study  — " 

"Study?"  Aunt  Jane  asked  the  question  with 
a  hateful  little  smile  that  Father  would  have  been 
blind  not  to  have  understood.  And  he  was  equal  to 
it  —  but  I  'most  fell  over  backward  when  I  found 
how  equal  to  it  he  was. 

"Certainly,"  he  says,  "study.  I  —  I'll  hear 
her  lessons  myself  —  in  the  library,  after  I  come 
home  in  the  afternoon.  Now  let  us  hear  no  more 
about  it." 

With  that  he  pushed  back  his  plate,  stuffed 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  111 

his  astronomy  paper  into  his  pocket,  and  left  the 
table,  without  waiting  for  dessert.  And  Aunt 
Jane  and  I  were  left  alone. 

I  didn't  say  anything.  Victors  shouldn't 
boast  —  and  I  was  a  victor,  of  course,  about  the 
school.  But  when  I  thought  of  what  Father  had 
said  about  my  reciting  my  lessons  to  him  every 
day  in  the  library  —  I  was  n't  so  sure  whether 
I'd  won  out  or  not.  Recite  lessons  to  my  father? 
Why,  I  could  n't  even  imagine  such  a  thing ! 

Aunt  Jane  did  n't  say  anything  either.  I  guess 
she  did  n't  know  what  to  say.  And  it  was  kind 
of  a  queer  situation,  when  you  came  right  down 
to  it.  Both  of  us  sitting  there  and  knowing 
I  was  n't  going  back  to  school  any  more,  and  I 
knowing  why,  and  knowing  Aunt  Jane  did  n't 
know  why.  (Of  course  I  had  n't  told  Aunt  Jane 
about  Mother  and  Mrs.  Mayhew.)  It  would  be  a 
funny  world,  would  n't  it,  if  we  all  knew  what 
each  other  was  thinking  all  the  time?  Why,  we'd 
get  so  we  would  n't  do  anything  but  think  —  for 
there  would  n't  any  of  us  speak  to  each  other,  I  'm 
afraid,  we'd  be  so  angry  at  what  the  other  was 
thinking. 

Well,  Aunt  Jane  and  I  did  n't  speak  that  night 
at  the  supper-table.  We  finished  in  stern  silence; 
then  Aunt  Jane  went  upstairs  to  her  room  and 
I  went  up  to  mine.  (You  see  what  a  perfectly 
wildly  exciting  life  Mary  is  living!  And  when 


112  MARY  MARIE 

I  think  of  how  full  of  good  times  Mother  wanted 
every  minute  to  be.  But  that  was  for  Marie,  of 
course.) 

The  next  morning  after  breakfast  Aunt  Jane 
said: 

"You  will  spend  your  forenoon  studying, 
Mary.  See  that  you  learn  well  your  lessons,  so 
as  not  to  annoy  your  father." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Mary,  polite  and 
proper,  and  went  upstairs  obediently;  but  even 
Mary  did  n't  know  exactly  how  to  study  those 
lessons. 

Carrie  had  brought  me  all  my  books  from 
school.  I  had  asked  her  to  when  I  knew  that  I 
was  not  going  back.  There  were  the  lessons  that 
had  been  assigned  for  the  next  day,  of  course, 
and  I  supposed  probably  Father  would  want  me 
to  study  those.  But  I  could  n't  imagine  Father 
teaching  me  all  alone.  And  how  was  I  ever  going 
to  ask  him  questions,  if  there  were  things  I  did  n't 
understand?  Besides,  I  could  n't  imagine  myself 
reciting  lessons  to  Father  —  Father! 

But  I  need  n't  have  worried.  If  I  could  only 
have  known.  Little  did  I  think  —  But,  there,  this 
is  no  way  to  tell  a  story.  I  read  in  a  book,  "  How 
to  Write  a  Novel,"  that  you  mustn't  "antici- 
pate." (I  thought  folks  always  anticipated  nov- 
els. I  do.  I  thought  you  wanted  them  to.) 

Well,  to  go  on. 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  113 

Father  got  home  at  four  o'clock.  I  saw  him 
come  up  the  walk,  and  I  waited  till  I  was  sure 
he  'd  got  settled  in  the  library,  then  I  went  down. 

He  was  n't  there. 

A  minute  later  I  saw  him  crossing  the  lawn  to 
the  observatory.  Well,  what  to  do  I  did  n't  know. 
Mary  said  to  go  after  him;  but  Marie  said  nay, 
nay.  And  in  spite  of  being  Mary  just  now,  I  let 
Marie  have  her  way. 

Rush  after  him  and  tell  him  he  'd  forgotten  to 
hear  my  lessons?  Father?  Well,  I  guess  not!  Be- 
sides, it  was  n't  my  fault.  /  was  there  all  ready. 
It  was  n't  my  blame  that  he  was  n't  there  to  hear 
me.  But  he  might  remember  and  come  back. 
Well,  if  he  did,  /  'd  be  there.  So  I  went  to  one  of 
those  bookcases  and  pulled  out  a  touch-me-not 
book  from  behind  the  glass  door.  Then  I  sat 
down  and  read  till  the  supper-bell  rang. 

Father  was  five  minutes  late  to  supper.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  looked  at  me  or  not.  I  did  n't 
dare  to  look  at  him  —  until  Aunt  Jane  said,  in 
her  chilliest  manner: 

"I  trust  your  daughter  had  good  lessons, 
Charles." 

I  had  to  look  at  him  then.  I  just  could  n't  look 
anywhere  else.  So  I  was  looking  straight  at  him 
when  he  gave  that  funny  little  startled  glance 
into  my  eyes.  And  into  his  eyes  then  there  crept 
the  funniest,  dearest  little  understanding  twinkle 


114  MARY  MARIE 

—  and  I  suddenly  realized  that  Father,  Father, 
was  laughing  with  me  at  a  little  secret  between 
us.  But  't  was  only  for  a  second.  The  next  mo- 
ment his  eyes  were  very  grave  and  looking  at 
Aunt  Jane. 

"I  have  no  cause  to  complain  —  of  my  daugh- 
ter's lessons  to-day,"  he  said  very  quietly.  Then 
he  glanced  over  at  me  again.  But  I  had  to 
look  away  quick,  or  I  would  have  laughed  right 
out. 

When  he  got  up  from  the  table  he  said  to  me: 
"I  shall  expect  to  see  you  to-morrow  in  the  li- 
brary at  four,  Mary." 

And  Mary  answered,  "Yes,  Father,"  polite 
and  proper,  as  she  should;  but  Marie  inside  was 
just  chuckling  with  the  joke  of  it  all. 

The  next  day  I  watched  again  at  four  for 
Father  to  come  up  the  walk;  and  when  he  had 
come  in  I  went  down  to  the  library.  He  was 
there  in  his  pet  seat  before  the  fireplace.  (Father 
always  sits  before  the  fireplace,  whether  there 's 
a  fire  there  or  not.  And  sometimes  he  looks  so 
funny  sitting  there,  staring  into  those  gray  ashes 
just  as  if  it  was  the  liveliest  kind  of  a  fire  he 
was  watching.) 

As  I  said,  he  was  there,  but  I  had  to  speak 
twice  before  he  looked  up.  Then,  for  a  minute, 
he  stared  vaguely. 

"Eh?  Oh!  Ah  —  er  —  yes,  to  be  sure,"  he  mut- 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  115 

tered  then.  "You  have  come  with  your  books. 
Yes,  I  remember." 

But  there  was  n't  any  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  nor 
the  least  little  bit  of  an  understanding  smile;  and 
I  was  disappointed.  I  had  been  looking  for  it.  I 
knew  then,  when  I  felt  so  suddenly  lost  and 
heart-achey,  that  I  had  been  expecting  and  plan- 
ning all  day  on  that  twinkly  understanding  smile. 
You  know  you  feel  worse  when  you  've  just  found 
a  father  and  then  lost  him ! 

And  I  had  lost  him.  I  knew  it  the  minute  he 
sighed  and  frowned  and  got  up  from  his  seat  and 
said,  oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  He  was  just  Dr.  Ander- 
son then  —  the  man  who  knew  all  about  the 
stars,  and  who  had  been  unmarried  to  Mother, 
and  who  called  me  "Mary"  in  an  of-course- 
you  're-my-daughter  tone  of  voice. 

Well,  he  took  my  books  and  heard  my  lessons, 
and  told  me  what  I  was  to  study  next  day.  He 's 
done  that  two  days  now. 

Oh,  I'm  so  tired  of  being  Mary!  And  I've  got 
more  than  four  whole  months  of  it  left.  I  did  n't 
get  Mother's  letter  to-day.  Maybe  that 's  why 
I  'm  specially  lonesome  to-night. 

July  first. 

School  is  done,  both  the  regular  school  and  my 
school.  Not  that  my  school  has  amounted  to 
much.  Really  it  has  n't.  Oh,  for  three  or  four  days 


116  MARY  MARIE 

he  asked  questions  quite  like  just  a  teacher.  Then 
he  got  to  talking.  Sometimes  it  would  be  about 
something  in  the  lessons;  sometimes  it  would  be 
about  a  star,  or  the  moon.  And  he  'd  get  so  inter- 
ested that  I  'd  think  for  a  minute  that  maybe  the 
understanding  twinkle  would  come  into  his  eyes 
again.  But  it  never  did. 

Sometimes  it  was  n't  stars  and  moons,  though, 
that  he  talked  about.  It  was  Boston,  and  Mother. 
Yes,  he  did.  He  talked  a  lot  about  Mother.  As  I 
look  back  at  it  now,  I  can  see  that  he  did.  He 
asked  me  all  over  again  what  she  did,  and  about 
the  parties,  and  the  folks  that  came  to  see  her. 
He  asked  again  about  Mr.  Harlow,  and  about 
the  concert,  and  the  young  man  who  played  the 
violin,  and  what  was  his  name,  and  how  old 
was  he,  and  did  I  like  him.  And  then,  right  in  the 
middle  of  some  question,  or  rather,  right  in  the 
middle  of  some  answer  I  was  giving  him,  he  would 
suddenly  remember  he  was  hearing  my  lessons, 
and  he  would  say,  "Come,  come,  Mary,  what 
has  this  to  do  with  your  lessons?" 

Just  as  if  I  was  to  blame!  (But,  then,  we 
women  always  get  the  blame,  I  notice.)  And 
then  he'd  attend  strictly  to  the  books  for  maybe 
five  whole  minutes  —  before  he  asked  another 
question  about  that  party,  or  the  violinist. 

Naturally  the  lessons  have  n't  amounted  to 
much,  as  you  can  imagine.  But  the  term  was 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  117 

nearly  finished,  anyway;  and  my  real  school  is  in 
Boston,  of  course. 

It 's  vacation  now.  I  do  hope  that  will  amount 
to  something ! 

Augustfirst. 

It  has  n't,  so  far  —  I  mean  vacation.  Really, 
what  a  world  of  disappointment  this  is!  How  on 
earth  I'm  going  to  stand  being  Mary  for  three 
months  more  I  don't  know.  But  I've  got  to,  I 
suppose.  I've  been  here  May,  June,  and  July; 
and  that  leaves  August,  September,  and  October 
yet  to  come.  And  when  I  think  of  Mother  and 
Boston  and  Marie,  and  the  darling  good  times 
down  there  where  you're  really  wanted,  I  am 
simply  crazy. 

If  Father  wanted  me,  really  wanted  me,  I 
would  n't  care  a  bit.  I  'd  be  willing  to  be  Mary 
six  whole  months.  Yes,  I'd  be  glad  to.  But  he 
does  n't.  I  'm  just  here  by  order  of  the  court.  And 
what  can  you  do  when  you're  nothing  but  a 
daughter  by  order  of  the  court? 

Since  the  lessons  have  stopped,  Father 's  gone 
back  to  his  "  Good-morning,  Mary,"  and  "  Good- 
night," and  nothing  else,  day  in  and  day  out. 
Lately  he 's  got  so  he  hangs  around  the  house  an 
awful  lot,  too,  so  I  can't  even  do  the  things  I  did 
the  first  of  the  month.  I  mean  that  I'd  been 
playing  some  on  the  piano,  along  at  the  first,  after 


118  MARY  MARIE 

school  closed.  Aunt  Jane  was  out  in  the  garden  a 
lot,  and  Father  out  to  the  observatory,  so  I  just 
reveled  in  piano-playing  till  I  found  almost  every 
time  I  did  it  that  he  had  come  back,  and  was  in 
the  library  with  the  door  open.  So  I  don't  dare  to 
play  now. 

And  there  is  n't  a  blessed  thing  to  do.  Oh,  I 
have  to  sew  an  hour,  and  now  I  have  to  weed  an 
hour,  too;  and  Aunt  Jane  tried  to  have  me  learn 
to  cook;  but  Susie  (in  the  kitchen)  flatly  refused 
to  have  me  "messing  around,"  so  Aunt  Jane  had 
to  give  that  up.  Susie 's  the  one  person  Aunt  Jane 's 
afraid  of,  you  see.  She  always  threatens  to  leave 
if  anything  goes  across  her  wishes.  So  Aunt  Jane 
has  to  be  careful.  I  heard  her  tell  Mrs.  Small  next 
door  that  good  hired  girls  were  awfully  scarce 
in  Andersonville. 

As  I  said  before,  if  only  there  was  somebody 
here  that  wanted  me.  But  there  is  n't.  Of  course 
Father  does  n't.  That  goes  without  saying.  And 
Aunt  Jane  does  n't.  That  goes,  too,  without  say- 
ing. Carrie  Heywood  has  gone  away  for  all  sum- 
mer, so  I  can't  have  even  her;  and  of  course,  I 
would  n't  associate  with  any  of  the  other  girls, 
even  if  they  would  associate  with  me  —  which 
they  won't. 

That  leaves  only  Mother's  letters.  They  are 
dear,  and  I  love  them.  I  don't  know  what  I'd 
do  without  them.  And  yet,  sometimes  I  think 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  119 

maybe  they  're  worse  than  if  I  did  n't  have  them. 
They  make  me  so  homesick,  and  I  always  cry  so 
after  I  get  them.  Still,  I  know  I  just  could  n't 
live  a  minute  if  't  was  n't  for  Mother's  letters. 

Besides  being  so  lonesome  there 's  another 
thing  that  worries  me,  too;  and  that  is,  this  — 
what  I  'm  writing,  I  mean.  The  novel.  It 's  getting 
awfully  stupid.  Nothing  happens.  Nothing!  Of 
course,  if  't  was  just  a  story  I  could  make  up 
things  —  lots  of  them  —  exciting,  interesting 
things,  like  having  Mother  elope  with  the  vio- 
linist, and  Father  shoot  him  and  fall  in  love  with 
Mother  all  over  again,  or  else  with  somebody 
else,  and  shoot  that  one's  lover.  Or  maybe  some- 
body'd  try  to  shoot  Father,  and  I'd  get  there 
just  in  time  to  save  him.  Oh,  I  'd  love  that ! 

But  this  is  a  real  story,  so,  of  course,  I  can't 
put  in  anything  only  just  what  happens;  and 
nothing  happens. 

And  that 's  another  thing.  About  the  love  story 
—  I  'm  afraid  there  is  n't  going  to  be  one.  Any- 
way, there  is  n't  a  bit  of  a  sign  of  one,  yet,  unless 
it 's  Mother.  And  of  course,  I  have  n't  seen  her 
for  three  months,  so  I  can't  say  anything  about 
that. 

Father  has  n't  got  one.  I  'm  sure  of  that.  He 
does  n't  like  ladies.  I  know  he  does  n't.  He  always 
runs  away  from  them.  But  they  don't  run  away 
from  him!  Listen. 


120  MARY  MARIE 

As  I  said  before,  quite  a  lot  of  them  call  here 
to  see  Aunt  Jane,  and  they  come  lots  of  times 
evenings  and  late  afternoons,  and  I  know  now 
why  they  do  it.  They  come  then  because  they 
think  Father '11  be  at  home  at  that  time;  and  they 
want  to  see  him. 

I  know  it  now,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  till  the 
other  day  when  I  heard  our  hired  girl,  Susie, 
talking  about  it  with  Bridget,  the  Smalls'  hired 
girl,  over  the  fence  when  I  was  weeding  the  gar- 
den one  day.  Then  I  knew.  It  was  like  this: 

Mrs.  Darling  had  been  over  the  night  before 
as  usual,  and  had  stayed  an  awfully  long  time 
talking  to  Aunt  Jane  on  the  front  piazza.  Father 
had  been  there,  too,  awhile.  She  stopped  him  on 
his  way  into  the  house.  I  was  there  and  I  heard 
her.  She  said : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Anderson,  I'm  so  glad  I  saw  you!  I 
wanted  to  ask  your  advice  about  selling  poor 
dear  Mr.  Darling's  law  library." 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  him  how  she'd 
had  an  offer,  but  she  was  n't  sure  whether  it  was 
a  good  one  or  not.  And  she  told  him  how  highly 
she  prized  his  opinion,  and  he  was  a  man  of  such 
splendid  judgment,  and  she  felt  so  alone  now  with 
no  strong  man's  shoulder  to  lean  upon,  and  she 
would  be  so  much  obliged  if  he  only  would  tell  her 
whether  he  considered  that  offer  a  good  one  or  not. 

Father    hitched    and    ahemmed    and   moved 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  121 

nearer  the  door  all  the  time  she  was  talking,  and 
he  did  n't  seem  to  hear  her  when  she  pushed  a 
chair  toward  him  and  asked  him  to  please  sit 
down  and  tell  her  what  to  do;  that  she  was  so 
alone  in  the  world  since  poor  dear  Mr.  Darling 
had  gone.  (She  always  calls  him  poor  dear  Mr. 
Darling  now,  but  Susie  says  she  did  n't  when  he 
was  alive;  she  called  him  something  quite  dif- 
ferent. I  wonder  what  it  was.) 

Well,  as  I  said,  Father  hitched  and  fidgeted, 
and  said  he  did  n't  know,  he  was  sure;  that  she'd 
better  take  wiser  counsel  than  his,  and  that  he 
was  very  sorry,  but  she  really  must  excuse  him. 
And  he  got  through  the  door  while  he  was  talk- 
ing just  as  fast  as  he  could  himself,  so  that  she 
could  n't  get  in  a  single  word  to  keep  him.  Then 
he  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Darling  stayed  on  the  piazza  two  whole 
hours  longer,  but  Father  never  came  out  at  all 
again. 

It  was  the  next  morning  that  Susie  said  this 
over  the  back-yard  fence  to  Bridget: 

"It  does  beat  all  how  popular  this  house  is 
with  the  ladies  —  after  college  hours!" 

And  Bridget  chuckled  and  answered  back : 

"Sure  it  is!  An'  I  do  be  thinkin'  the  Widder 
Darlin'  is  a  heap  fonder  of  Miss  Jane  now  than 
she  would  have  been  had  poor  dear  Mr.  Darlin' 
lived!" 


122  MARY  MARIE 

And  she  chuckled  again,  and  so  did  Susie* 
And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  knew.  It  was  Father 
all  those  ladies  wanted.  It  was  Father  Mrs.  Dar- 
ling wanted.  They  came  here  to  see  him.  They 
wanted  to  marry  him.  They  were  the  prospec- 
tive suitors.  As  if  I  did  n't  know  what  Susie  and 
Bridget  meant !  I  'm  no  child ! 

But  all  this  does  n't  make  Father  like  them. 
I  'm  not  sure  but  it  makes  him  dislike  them.  Any- 
how, he  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  them. 
He  always  runs  away  over  to  the  observatory, 
or  somewhere,  and  won't  see  them;  and  I've 
heard  him  say  things  about  them  to  Aunt  Jane, 
too  —  words  that  sound  all  right,  but  that  don't 
mean  what  they  say,  and  everybody  knows  they 
don't.  So,  as  I  said  before,  I  don't  see  any  chance 
of  Father's  having  a  love  story  to  help  out  this 
book  —  not  right  away,  anyhow. 

As  for  my  love  story  —  I  don't  see  any  chance 
of  that's  beginning,  either.  Yet,  seems  as  if  there 
ought  to  be  the  beginning  of  it  by  this  time  — 
I'm  going  on  fifteen.  Oh,  there  have  been  begin- 
nings, lots  of  them  —  only  Aunt  Jane  woula  n't 
let  them  go  on  and  be  endings,  though  I  told  her 
good  and  plain  that  I  thought  it  perfectly  all 
right;  and  I  reminded  her  about  the  brook  and 
river  meeting  where  I  stood,  and  all  that. 

But  I  could  n't  make  her  see  it  at  all.  She  said, 
"Stuff  and  nonsense"  —  and  when  Aunt  Jane 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  123 

says  both  stuff  and  nonsense  I  know  there  's  noth- 
ing doing.  (Oh,  dear,  that 's  slang!  Aunt  Jane  says 
she  does  wish  I  would  eliminate  the  slang  from 
my  vocabulary.  Well,  I  wish  she  'd  eliminate  some 
of  the  long  words  from  hers.  Marie  said  that  — 
not  Mary.) 

Well,  Aunt  Jane  said  stuff  and  nonsense,  and 
that  I  was  much  too  young  to  run  around  with 
silly  boys.  You  see,  Charlie  Smith  had  walked 
home  from  school  with  me  twice,  but  I  had  to 
stop  that.  And  Fred  Small  was  getting  so  he  was 
over  here  a  lot.  Aunt  Jane  stopped  him.  Paul 
May  hew  —  yes,  Paul  May  hew,  Stella's  brother ! 
—  came  home  with  me,  too,  and  asked  me  to  go 
with  him  auto-riding.  My,  how  I  did  want  to  go ! 
I  wanted  the  ride,  of  course,  but  especially  I 
wanted  to  go  because  he  was  Mrs.  Mayhew's 
son.  I  just  wanted  to  show  Mrs.  Mayhew!  But 
Aunt  Jane  would  n't  let  me.  That 's  the  time  she 
talked  specially  about  running  around  with  silly 
boys.  But  she  need  n't  have.  Paul  is  no  silly  boy. 
He's  old  enough  to  get  a  license  to  drive  his  own 
car. 

But  it  was  n't  just  because  he  was  young  that 
Aunt  Jane  refused.  I  found  out  afterward.  It  was 
because  he  was  any  kind  of  a  man  paying  me  at- 
tention. I  found  that  out  through  Mr.  Claude 
Livingstone.  Mr.  Livingstone  brings  our  grocer- 
ies. He 's  a  real  young  gentleman  —  tall,  black 


124  MARY  MARIE 

mustache,  and  lovely  dark  eyes.  He  goes  to  our 
church,  and  he  asked  me  to  go  to  the  Sunday- 
School  picnic  with  him.  I  was  so  pleased.  And  I 
supposed,  of  course,  Aunt  Jane  would  let  me  go 
with  him.  He  9s  no  silly  boy !  Besides,  I  knew  him 
real  well,  and  liked  him.  I  used  to  talk  to  him 
quite  a  lot  when  he  brought  the  groceries. 

But  did  Aunt  Jane  let  me  go?  She  did  not. 
Why,  she  seemed  almost  more  shocked  than  she 
had  been  over  Charlie  Smith  and  Fred  Small, 
and  the  others. 

"Mercy,  child !"  she  exclaimed.  "Where  in 
the  world  do  you  pick  up  these  people?"  And 
she  brought  out  that  "these  people"  so  disagree- 
ably! Why,  you'd  think  Mr.  Livingstone  was  a 
foreign  Japanese,  or  something. 

I  told  her  then  quietly,  and  with  dignity,  and 
with  no  temper  (showing),  that  Mr.  Livingstone 
was  not  a  foreign  Japanese,  but  was  a  very  nice 
gentleman;  and  that  I  had  not  picked  him  up. 
He  came  to  her  own  door  himself,  almost  every 
day. 

"My  own  door!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Jane.  And 
she  looked  absolutely  frightened.  "You  mean 
to  tell  me  that  that  creature  has  been  coming 
here  to  see  you,  and  I  not  know  it?  " 

I  told  her  then  —  again  quietly  and  with  dig- 
nity, and  without  temper  (showing)  —  that  he 
had  been  coming,  not  to  see  me,  but  in  the  natural 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  125 

pursuance  of  his  profession  of  delivering  grocer- 
ies. And  I  said  that  he  was  not  a  creature.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was,  I  was  sure,  an  estimable 
young  man.  He  went  to  her  own  church  and  Sun- 
day-School. Besides,  I  could  vouch  for  him  my- 
self, as  I  knew  him  well,  having  seen  and  talked 
with  him  almost  every  day  for  a  long  while,  when 
he  came  to  the  house. 

But  nothing  I  could  say  seemed  to  have  the 
least  effect  upon  her  at  all,  only  to  make  her  an- 
grier and  angrier,  if  anything.  In  fact  I  think  she 
showed  a  great  deal  of  temper  for  a  Christian 
woman  about  a  fellow  Christian  in  her  own 
church. 

But  she  would  n't  let  me  go  to  the  picnic;  and 
not  only  that,  but  I  think  she  changed  grocers, 
for  Mr.  Livingstone  has  n't  been  here  for  a  long 
time,  and  when  I  asked  Susie  where  he  was  she 
looked  funny,  and  said  we  were  n't  getting  our 
groceries  where  Mr.  Livingstone  worked  any 
longer. 

Well,  of  course,  that  ended  that.  And  there 
has  n't  been  any  other  since.  That 's  why  I  say 
my  love  story  does  n't  seem  to  be  getting  along 
very  well.  Naturally,  when  it  gets  noised  around 
town  that  your  Aunt  Jane  won't  let  you  go  any- 
where with  a  young  man,  or  let  a  young  man 
come  to  see  you,  or  even  walk  home  with  you 
after  the  first  time  —  why,  the  young  men  are  n't 


126  MARY  MARIE 

going  to  do  very  much  toward  making  your 
daily  life  into  a  love  story. 

Two  weeks  later. 

A  queer  thing  happened  last  night.  It  was  like 
this: 

I  think  I  said  before  what  an  awfully  stupid 
time  Mary  is  having  of  it,  and  how  I  could  n't 
play  now,  or  make  any  noise,  'cause  Father  has 
taken  to  hanging  around  the  house  so  much. 
Well,  listen  what  happened. 

Yesterday  Aunt  Jane  went  to  spend  the  day 
with  her  best  friend.  She  said  for  me  not  to  leave 
the  house,  as  some  member  of  the  family  should 
be  there.  She  told  me  to  sew  an  hour,  weed  an 
hour,  dust  the  house  downstairs  and  upstairs,  and 
read  some  improving  book  an  hour.  The  rest  of 
the  time  I  might  amuse  myself. 

Amuse  myself!  A  jolly  time  I  could  have  all 
by  myself !  Even  Father  was  n't  to  be  home  for 
dinner,  so  I  would  n't  have  that  excitement.  He 
was  out  of  town,  and  was  not  to  come  home  till 
six  o'clock. 

It  was  an  awfully  hot  day.  The  sun  just  beat 
down,  and  there  was  n't  a  breath  of  air.  By  noon 
I  was  simply  crazy  with  my  stuffy,  long-sleeved, 
high-necked  blue  gingham  dress  and  my  great 
clumpy  shoes.  It  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  as  if  I 
could  n't  stand  it  —  not  another  minute  —  not 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  127 

a  single  minute  more  —  to  be  Mary,  I  mean. 
And  suddenly  I  determined  that  for  a  while,  just 
a  little  while,  I  'd  be  Marie  again.  Why  could  n't 
I?  There  was  n't  anybody  going  to  be  there  but 
just  myself,  all  day  long. 

I  ran  then  upstairs  to  the  guest-room  closet 
where  Aunt  Jane  had  made  me  put  aU  my  Ma- 
rie dresses  and  things  when  the  Mary  ones  came. 
Well,  I  got  out  the  very  fluffiest,  softest  white 
dress  there  was  there,  and  the  little  white  slip- 
pers and  the  silk  stockings  that  I  loved,  and  the 
blue  silk  sash,  and  the  little  gold  locket  and  chain 
that  Mother  gave  me  that  Aunt  Jane  would  n't 
let  me  wear.  And  I  dressed  up.  My,  did  n't  I 
dress  up?  And  I  just  threw  those  old  heavy  shoes 
and  black  cotton  stockings  into  the  corner,  and 
the  blue  gingham  dress  after  them  (though  Mary 
went  right  away  and  picked  the  dress  up,  and 
hung  it  in  the  closet,  of  course) ;  but  I  had  the  fun 
of  throwing  it,  anyway. 

Oh,  how  good  those  Marie  things  did  feel  to 
Mary's  hot,  tired  flesh  and  bones,  and  how  I  did 
dance  and  sing  around  the  room  in  those  light 
little  slippers!  Then  Susie  rang  the  dinner-bell 
and  I  went  down  to  the  dining-room  feeling  like 
a  really  truly  young  lady,  I  can  tell  you. 

Susie  stared,  of  course,  and  said,  "My,  how 
fine  we  are  to-day! "  But  I  did  n't  mind  Susie. 

After  dinner  I  went  out  into  the  hall  and  I 


128  MARY  MARIE 

sang;  I  sang  all  over  the  house.  And  I  ran  up- 
stairs and  I  ran  down;  and  I  jumped  all  the  last 
three  steps,  even  if  it  was  so  warm.  Then  I  went 
into  the  parlor  and  played  every  lively  thing 
that  I  could  think  of  on  the  piano.  And  I  sang 
there,  too  —  silly  little  songs  that  Marie  used  to 
sing  to  Lester.  And  I  tried  to  think  I  was  really 
down  there  to  Boston,  singing  to  Lester;  and  that 
Mother  was  right  in  the  next  room  waiting  for 
me. 

Then  I  stopped  and  turned  around  on  the 
piano-stool.  And  there  was  the  coffin  plate,  and 
the  wax  cross,  and  the  hair  wreath;  and  the 
room  was  just  as  still  as  death.  And  I  knew  I 
was  n't  in  Boston.  I  was  there  in  Anderson vi lie. 
And  there  was  n't  any  Baby  Lester  there,  nor  any 
mother  waiting  for  me  in  the  next  room.  And  all 
the  fluffy  white  dresses  and  silk  stockings  in  the 
world  would  n't  make  me  Marie.  I  was  really 
just  Mary,  and  I  had  got  to  have  three  whole 
months  more  of  it. 

And  then  is  when  I  began  to  cry.  And  I  cried 
just  as  hard  as  I  'd  been  singing  a  minute  before. 
I  was  on  the  floor  with  my  head  in  my  arms  on 
the  piano-stool  when  Father's  voice  came  to  me 
from  the  doorway. 

"Mary,  Mary,  what  in  the  world  does  this 
mean?" 

I  jumped  up  and  stood  "at  attention,"  the  way 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  129 

you  have  to,  of  course,  when  fathers  speak  to  you. 
I  could  n't  help  showing  I  had  been  crying  —  he 
had  seen  it.  But  I  tried  very  hard  to  stop  now. 
My  first  thought,  after  my  startled  realization 
that  he  was  there,  was  to  wonder  how  long  he  had 
been  there  —  how  much  of  all  that  awful  singing 
and  banging  he  had  heard. 

"Yes,  sir."  I  tried  not  to  have  my  voice 
shake  as  I  said  it;  but  I  could  n't  quite  help 
that. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Mary?  Wiry  are 
you  crying?" 

i  I  shook  my  head.  I  did  n't  want  to  tell  him,  of 
course;  so  I  just  stammered  out  something  about 
being  sorry  I  had  disturbed  him.  Then  I  edged 
toward  the  door  to  show  him  that  if  he  would 
step  one  side  I  would  go  away  at  once  and  not 
bother  him  any  longer. 

But  he  did  n't  step  one  side.  He  asked  more 
questions,  one  right  after  another. 

"Are  you  sick,  Mary?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself?" 

I  shook  my  head  again. 

"It  is  n't  —  your  mother  —  you  have  n't  had 
bad  news  from  her?" 

And  then  I  blurted  it  out  without  thinking  — 
without  thinking  at  all  what  I  was  saying:  "No, 
no  —  but  I  wish  I  had,  I  wish  I  had;  'cause  then 


130  MARY  MARIE 

I  could  go  to  her,  and  go  away  from  here!" 
The  minute  I'd  said  it  I  knew  what  I'd  said, 
and  how  awful  it  sounded;  and  I  clapped  my  fin- 
gers to  my  lips.  But  't  was  too  late.  It 's  always 
too  late,  when  you've  once  said  it.  So  I  just 
waited  for  him  to  thunder  out  his  anger;  for,  of 
course,  I  thought  he  would  thunder  in  rage  and 
righteous  indignation. 

But  he  did  n't.  Instead,  very  quietly  and  gently 
he  said: 

"Are  you  so  unhappy,  then,  Mary  —  here?  " 

And  I  looked  at  him,  and  his  eyes  and  his 
mouth  and  his  whole  face  were  n't  angry  at  all. 
They  were  just  sorry,  actually  sorry.  And  some- 
how, before  I  knew  it,  I  was  crying  again,  and 
Father,  with  his  arm  around  me  —  with  his  arm 
around  me  I  think  of  that !  —  was  leading  me  to 
the  sofa. 

And  I  cried  and  cried  there,  with  my  head  on 
the  arm  of  the  sofa,  till  I  'd  made  a  big  tear  spot 
on  the  linen  cover;  and  I  wondered  if  it  would 
dry  up  before  Aunt  Jane  saw  it,  or  if  it  would 
change  color  or  leak  through  to  the  red  plush 
underneath,  or  some  other  dreadful  thing.  And 
then,  some  way,  I  found  myself  telling  it  all  over 
to  Father  —  about  Mary  and  Marie,  I  mean, 
just  as  if  he  was  Mother,  or  some  one  I  loved  — 
I  mean,  some  one  I  loved  and  was  n't  afraid  cf; 
for  of  course  I  love  Father.  Of  course  I  do ! 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  131 

Well,  I  told  him  everything  (when  I  got 
started  there  was  no  stopping)  —  all  about  how 
hard  it  was  to  be  Mary,  and  how  to-day  I  had 
tried  to  be  Marie  for  just  a  little  while,  to  rest  me. 
He  interrupted  here,  and  wanted  to  know  if  that 
was  why  I  looked  so  different  to-day  —  more  as 
I  had  when  I  first  came;  and  I  said  yes,  that  these 
were  Marie  things  that  Mary  could  n't  wear. 
And  when  he  asked,  "Why,  pray?"  in  a  voice 
almost  cross,  I  told  him,  of  course,  that  Aunt 
Jane  would  n't  let  me;  that  Mary  had  to  wear 
brown  serge  and  calfskin  boots  that  were  durable, 
and  that  would  wear  well. 

And  when  I  told  him  how  sorry  I  was  about 
the  music  and  such  a  noise  as  I'd  been  making, 
he  asked  if  that  was  Marie's  fault,  too;  and  I  said 
yes,  of  course  —  that  Aunt  Jane  did  n't  like  to 
have  Mary  play  at  all,  except  hymns  and  funeral 
marches,  and  Mary  did  n't  know  any.  And  he 
grunted  a  queer  little  grunt,  and  said,  "Well, 
well,  upon  my  soul,  upon  my  soul!"  Then  he 
said,  "Go  on."  And  I  did  go  on. 

I  told  him  how  I  was  afraid  it  was  going  to  be 
just  like  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  (I  forgot  to  say 
I've  read  it  now.  I  found  it  in  Father's  library.) 
Of  course  not  just  like  it,  only  one  of  me  was 
going  to  be  bad,  and  one  good,  I  was  afraid,  if  I 
did  n't  look  out.  I  told  him  how  Marie  always 
wanted  to  kick  up  rugs,  and  move  the  chairs  out 


132  MARY  MARIE 

of  their  sockets  in  the  carpet,  and  leave  books 
around  handy,  and  such  things.  And  so  to-day  it 
seemed  as  if  I  'd  just  got  to  have  a  vacation  from 
Mary's  hot  gingham  dresses  and  clumpy  shoes. 
And  I  told  him  how  lonesome  I  was  without 
anybody,  not  anybody  ;  and  I  told  about  Charlie 
Smith  and  Paul  Mayhew  and  Mr.  Claude  Living- 
stone, and  how  Aunt  Jane  would  n't  let  me  have 
them,  either,  even  if  I  was  standing  where  the 
brook  and  river  meet. 

Father  gave  another  funny  little  grunt  here, 
and  got  up  suddenly  and  walked  over  to  the  win- 
dow. I  thought  at  first  he  was  angry;  but  he 
was  n't.  He  was  even  more  gentle  when  he  came 
back  and  sat  down  again,  and  he  seemed  inter- 
ested, very  much  interested  in  everything  I  told 
him.  But  I  stopped  just  in  time  from  saying  again 
how  I  wished  I  could  go  back  to  Boston;  but  I'm 
not  sure  but  he  knew  I  was  going  to  say  it. 

But  he  was  very  nice  and  kind  and  told  me  not 
to  worry  about  the  music  —  that  he  did  n't 
mind  it  at  all.  He'd  been  in  several  times  and 
heard  it.  And  I  thought  almost,  by  the  way  he 
spoke,  that  he'd  come  in  on  purpose  to  hear  it; 
but  I  guess  that  was  a  mistake.  He  just  put  it 
that  way  so  I  would  n't  worry  over  it  —  about  its 
bothering  him,  I  mean. 

He  was  going  to  say  more,  maybe;  but  I  don't 
know.  I  had  to  run.  I  heard  Aunt  Jane's  voice  on 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  133 

the  piazza  saying  good-bye  to  the  lady  that  had 
brought  her  home;  so,  of  course,  I  had  to  run  and 
hang  Marie  in  the  closet  and  get  out  Mary  from 
the  corner  before  she  saw  me.  And  I  did. 

By  dinner-time  I  had  on  the  gingham  dress 
and  the  hot  clumpy  shoes  again;  and  I  had 
washed  my  face  in  cold  water  so  I  had  got  most  of 
the  tear  spots  off.  I  did  n't  want  Aunt  Jane  to  see 
them  and  ask  questions,  of  course.  And  I  guess 
she  did  n't.  Anyway,  she  did  n't  say  anything. 

Father  didn't  say  anything  either,  but  he 
acted  queer.  Aunt  Jane  tried  to  tell  him  some- 
thing about  the  missionary  meeting  and  the 
heathen,  and  a  great  famine  that  was  raging.  At 
first  he  did  n't  say  anything;  then  he  said,  oh,  yes, 
to  be  sure,  how  very  interesting,  and  he  was  glad, 
very  glad.  And  Aunt  Jane  was  so  disgusted,  and 
accused  him  of  being  even  more  absent-minded 
than  usual,  which  was  entirely  unnecessary,  she 
said. 

But  even  that  did  n't  move  Father  a  mite.  He 
just  said,  yes,  yes,  very  likely;  and  went  on 
scowling  to  himself  and  stirring  his  coffee  after 
he  'd  drank  it  all  up  —  I  mean,  stirring  where  it 
had  been  in  the  cup. 

I  did  n't  know  but  after  supper  he  'd  speak  to 
me  and  ask  me  to  come  to  the  library.  I  hoped  he 
would.  There  were  lots  more  things  I'd  like  to 
have  said  to  him.  But  he  did  n't.  He  never  said  a 


134  MARY  MARIE 

word.  He  just  kept  scowling,  and  got  up  from  the 
table  and  went  off  by  himself.  But  he  did  n't 
go  out  to  the  observatory,  as  he  most  generally 
does.  He  went  into  the  library  and  shut  the 
door. 

He  was  there  when  the  telephone  message  came 
at  eight  o'clock.  And  what  do  you  think?  He'd 
forgotten  he  was  going  to  speak  before  the  College 
Astronomy  Club  that  evening!  Forgotten  his  old 
stars  for  once.  I  don't  know  why.  I  did  think,  for 
a  minute,  't  was  'cause  of  me  —  what  I  'd  told 
him.  But  I  knew,  of  course,  right  away  that  it 
could  n't  be  that.  He  'd  never  forget  his  stars  for 
me!  Probably  he  was  just  reading  up  about  some 
other  stars,  or  had  forgotten  how  late  it  was,  or 
something.  (Father's  always  forgetting  things.) 
But,  anyway,  when  Aunt  Jane  called  him  he  got 
his  hat  and  hurried  off  without  so  much  as  one 
word  to  me,  who  was  standing  near,  or  to  Aunt 
Jane,  who  was  following  him  all  through  the  hall, 
and  telling  him  in  her  most  I 'm-amazed-at-you 
voice  how  shockingly  absent-minded  he  was  get- 
ting to  be. 

One  week  later. 

Father  's  been  awfully  queer  this  whole  week 
through.  I  can't  make  him  out  at  all.  Sometimes 
I  think  he 's  glad  I  told  him  all  those  things  in  the 
parlor  that  day  I  dressed  up  in  Marie's  things^ 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  135 

and  sometimes  I  think  he's  sorry  and  wished  I 
had  n't. 

The  very  next  morning  he  came  down  to  break- 
fast with  such  a  funny  look  on  his  face.  He  said 
good-morning  to  me  three  times,  and  all  through 
breakfast  he  kept  looking  over  at  me  with  a  kind 
of  scowl  that  was  not  cross  at  all  —  just  puzzled. 

After  breakfast  he  did  n't  go  out  to  the  obser- 
vatory, not  even  into  the  library.  He  fidgeted 
around  the  dining-room  till  Aunt  Jane  went  out 
into  the  kitchen  to  give  her  orders  to  Susie;  then 
he  burst  out,  all  of  a  sudden: 

"Well,  Mary,  what  shall  we  do  to-day?"  Just 
like  that  he  said  it,  as  if  we  'd  been  doing  things 
together  every  day  of  our  lives. 

"D-do?"  I  asked;  and  I  know  I  showed  how 
surprised  I  was  by  the  way  I  stammered  and 
flushed  up. 

"Certainly,  do,"  he  answered,  impatient  and 
scowling.  "WTiat  shall  we  do?" 

"Why,  Father,  I  — I  don't  know,"  I  stam- 
mered again. 

"Come,  come,  of  course  you  know!"  he  cried. 
"You  know  what  you  want  to  do,  don't  you?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  so  astonished  I  could  n't 
even  think.  And  when  you  can't  think  you  cer- 
tainly can't  talk. 

"Nonsense,  Mary,"  scowled  Father  again.  "Of 
course  you  know  what  you  want  to  do !  What  are 


136  MARY  MARIE 

you  in  the  habit  of  doing  with  your  young  friends 
—  your  Carries  and  Charlies,  and  all  the  rest?  " 

I  guess  I  just  stood  and  stared  and  did  n't  say 
anything;  for  after  a  minute  he  cried-  "Well  — 
well  —  well?  I'm  waiting." 

"Why,  we  —  we  walk  —  and  talk  —  and  play 
games,"  I  began;  but  right  away  he  interrupted. 

"  Good !  Very  well,  then,  we  '11  walk.  I  'm  not 
Carrie  or  Charlie,  but  I  believe  I  can  walk  and 
talk  —  perhaps  even  play  games.  Who  knows? 
Come,  get  your  hat." 

And  I  got  my  hat,  and  we  went. 

But  what  a  funny,  funny  walk  that  was!  He 
meant  to  make  it  a  good  one;  I  know  he  did. 
And  he  tried.  He  tried  real  hard.  But  he  walked 
so  fast  I  could  n't  half  keep  up  with  him;  then, 
when  he  saw  how  I  was  hurrying,  he'd  slow 
down,  'way  down,  and  look  so  worried  —  till  he  'd 
forget  and  go  striding  off  again,  'way  ahead  of  me. 

We  went  up  on  the  hill  through  the  Benton 
woods,  and  it  was  perfectly  lovely  up  there.  He 
did  n't  say  much  at  first.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
he  began  to  talk,  about  anything  and  everything. 
And  I  knew,  by  the  way  he  did  it,  that  he'd  just 
happened  to  think  he'd  got  to  talk. 

And  how  he  talked !  He  asked  me  was  I  warmly 
clad  (and  here  it  is  August!),  and  did  I  have  a 
good  breakfast,  and  how  old  was  I,  and  did  I 
enjoy  my  studies  —  which  shows  how  little  he 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  137 

was  really  thinking  what  he  was  saying.  He 
knows  school  closed  ages  ago.  Was  n't  he  teach- 
ing me  himself  the  last  of  it,  too?  All  around  us 
were  flowers  and  birds,  and  oh,  so  many,  many 
lovely  things.  But  he  never  said  a  word  about 
them.  He  just  talked  —  because  he'd  got  to  talk. 
I  knew  it,  and  it  made  me  laugh  inside,  though 
all  the  while  it  made  me  sort  of  want  to  cry,  too. 
Funny,  was  n't  it? 

After  a  time  he  did  n't  talk  any  more,  but  just 
walked  on  and  on;  and  by  and  by  we  came  home. 

Of  course,  it  was  n't  awfully  jolly  —  that  walk 
was  n't;  and  I  guess  Father  did  n't  think  it  was 
either.  Anyhow,  he  has  n't  asked  me  to  go  again 
this  week,  and  he  looked  tired  and  worried  and 
sort  of  discouraged  when  he  got  back  from  that 
one. 

But  he's  asked  me  to  do  other  things.  The 
next  day  after  the  walk  he  asked  me  to  play  to 
him.  Yes,  he  ashed  me  to;  and  he  went  into  the 
parlor  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  chairs  and 
listened  while  I  played  three  pieces.  Of  course, 
I  did  n't  play  loud  ones,  nor  very  fast  ones,  and 
I  was  so  scared  I  'm  afraid  I  did  n't  play  them 
very  well.  But  he  was  very  polite  and  said, 
"Thank  you,  Mary,"  and,  "That  that  was  very 
nice";  then  he  stood  up  and  said,  "Thank  you" 
again  and  went  away  into  the  library,  very 
polite,  but  stiff,  like  company. 


138  MARY  MARIE 

The  next  evening  he  took  me  out  to  the  ob- 
servatory to  see  the  stars.  That  was  lovely. 
Honestly  I  had  a  perfectly  beautiful  time,  and 
I  think  Father  did,  too.  He  was  n't  stiff  and 
polite  one  bit.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  he  was  im- 
polite or  rude.  It's  just  that  he  wasn't  stiff  as 
if  I  was  company.  And  he  was  so  happy  with 
his  stars  and  his  telescope,  and  so  glad  to  show 
them  to  me  —  oh,  I  had  a  beautiful  time,  and  I 
told  him  so;  and  he  looked  real  pleased.  But 
Aunt  Jane  came  for  me  before  I'd  had  half 
enough,  and  I  had  to  go  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  I  thought  he  'd  be  different, 
somehow,  because  we  'd  had  such  a  lovely  time 
together  the  night  before.  But  he  was  n't.  He 
just  said,  "Good-morning,  Mary,"  and  began  to 
read  his  paper.  And  he  read  his  paper  all  through 
breakfast  without  saying  another  word  to  me. 
Then  he  got  up  and  went  into  the  library,  and  I 
never  saw  him  again  all  day  except  at  dinner- 
time and  supper-time,  and  then  he  did  n't  talk 
to  me. 

But  after  supper  he  took  me  out  again  to  see 
the  stars,  and  he  was  just  as  nice  and  friendly  as 
could  be.  Not  a  bit  like  a  man  that's  only  a 
father  by  order  of  the  court.  But  the  next  day  — ! 

Well  —  and  that 's  the  way  it 's  been  all  the 
week.  And  that 's  why  I  say  he 's  been  so  queer. 
One  minute  he'll  be  just  as  nice  and  folksy  as 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  139 

you  could  ask  anybody  to  be,  and  the  very  next 
he 's  looking  right  through  you  as  if  he  did  n't 
see  you  at  all,  and  you  wonder  and  wonder  what's 
the  matter,  and  if  you've  done  anything  to  dis- 
please him. 

Sometimes  he  seems  almost  glad  and  happy, 
and  then  he  '11  look  so  sorry  and  sad ! 

I  just  can't  understand  my  father  at  all. 

Another  week  later. 

I'm  so  excited  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  The 
most  wonderful  thing  has  happened.  I  can't 
hardly  believe  it  yet  myself.  Yet  it's  so.  My 
trunk  is  all  packed,  and  I'm  to  go  home  to- 
morrow. To-morrow! 

This  is  the  way  it  happened. 

Mother  wrote  Aunt  Jane  and  asked  if  I  might 
not  be  allowed  to  come  home  for  the  opening  of 
school  in  September.  She  said  she  understood 
quite  well  that  she  had  no  right  to  ask  this, 
and,  of  course,  if  they  saw  fit,  they  were  entirely 
within  their  rights  to  refuse  to  allow  me  to  go 
until  the  allotted  time.  But  that  she  could  not 
help  asking  it  for  my  sake,  on  account  of  the 
benefit  to  be  derived  from  being  there  at  the 
opening  of  the  school  year. 

Of  course,  I  did  n't  know  Mother  was  going  to 
write  this.  But  she  knew  all  about  the  school  here, 
and  how  I  came  out,  and  everything.  I  've  always 


140  MARY  MARIE 

told  Mother  everything  that  has  happened.  Oh, 
of  course,  I  have  n't  written  "every  few  minutes," 
as  she  asked  me  to.  (That  was  a  joke,  anyway,  of 
course.)  But  I  have  written  every  few  days,  and, 
as  I  said  before,  I  told  her  everything. 

Well,  when  the  letter  came  I  took  it  to  Aunt 
Jane  myself;  and  I  was  crazy  to  know  what  was 
in  it,  for  I  recognized  the  writing,  of  course.  But 
Aunt  Jane  did  n't  tell  me.  She  opened  it,  read  it, 
kind  of  flushed  up,  and  said,  "Humph!  The 
idea!"  under  her  breath,  and  put  the  letter  in  her 
pocket. 

Marie  wanted  to  make  a  scene  and  insist  on 
knowing  what  was  in  her  own  mother's  letter; 
but  Mary  contented  herself  with  looking  superb 
and  haughty  and  disdainful,  and  marching  out  of 
the  room  without  giving  Aunt  Jane  the  satisfac- 
tion of  even  being  asked  what  was  in  that  letter. 

But  at  the  table  that  noon  Aunt  Jane  read  it  to 
Father  out  loud.  So  that's  how  I  came  to  know 
just  what  was  in  it.  She  started  first  to  hand  it 
over  to  him  to  read;  but  as  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  take  it  I  guess  he  saw  the  handwriting,  for  he 
drew  back  quickly,  looking  red  and  queer. 

"From  Mrs.  Anderson  to  you?"  he  asked.  And 
when  Aunt  Jane  nodded  her  head  he  sat  still 
farther  back  in  his  chair  and  said,  with  a  little 
wave  of  his  hand,  "I  never  care  to  read  —  other 
people's  letters." 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  141 

Aunt  Jane  said,  "  Stuff  and  nonsense,  Charles, 
don't  be  silly!"  But  she  pulled  back  the  letter 
and  read  it  —  after  giving  a  kind  of  an  uneasy 
glance  in  my  direction. 

Father  never  looked  up  once  while  she  was  read- 
ing it.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  his  plate  and  the 
baked  beans  he  was  eating.  I  watched  him.  You 
see,  I  knew,  by  Aunt  Jane's  reading  the  letter  to 
him,  that  it  was  something  he  had  got  to  decide; 
and  when  I  found  out  what  it  was,  of  course,  I 
was  just  crazy.  I  wanted  to  go  so.  So  I  watched 
Father's  face  to  see  if  he  was  going  to  let  me  go. 
But  I  could  n't  make  out.  I  could  n't  make  out  at 
all.  It  changed  —  oh,  yes,  it  changed  a  great  deal 
as  she  read;  but  I  could  n't  make  out  what  kind 
of  a  change  it  was  at  all. 

Aunt  Jane  finished  the  letter  and  began  to 
fold  it  up.  I  could  see  she  was  waiting  for  Father 
to  speak;  but  he  never  said  a  word.  He  kept 
right  on  —  eating  beans. 

Then  Aunt  Jane  cleared  her  throat  and  spoke. 

"You  will  not  let  her  go,  of  course,  Charles; 
but  naturally  I  had  to  read  the  letter  to  you.  I 
will  write  to  Mrs.  Anderson  to-night." 

Father  looked  up  then. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly;  "and  you  may  tell  her, 
please,  that  Mary  will  go." 

"Charles!" 

Aunt  Jane  said  that.  But  I  —  I  almost  ran 


142  MARY  MARIE 

around  the  table  and  hugged  him.  (Oh,  how  I 
wish  he  was  the  kind  of  a  father  you  could  do 
that  to!) 

"Charles!"  said  Aunt  Jane  again.  "Surely  you 
are  n't  going  to  give  in  so  tamely  as  this  to  that 
child  and  her  mother!" 

"I'm  not  giving  in  at  all,  Jane,"  said  Father, 
very  quietly  again.  "I  am  consulting  my  own 
wishes  in  the  matter.  I  prefer  to  have  her  go." 

I  'most  cried  out  then.  Some  way,  it  hurt  to 
have  him  say  it  like  that,  right  out  —  that  he 
wanted  me  to  go.  You  see,  I'd  begun  to  think  he 
was  getting  so  he  did  n't  mind  so  very  much  hav- 
ing me  here.  All  the  last  two  weeks  he'd  been 
different,  really  different.  But  more  of  that  anon. 
I  '11  go  on  with  what  happened  at  the  table.  And, 
as  I  said,  I  did  feel  bad  to  have  him  speak  like 
that.  And  I  can  remember  now  just  how  the 
lump  came  right  up  in  my  throat. 

Then  Aunt  Jane  spoke,  stiff  and  dignified. 

"Oh,  very  well,  of  course,  if  you  put  it  that 
way.  I  can  quite  well  understand  that  you  would 
want  her  to  go  —  for  your  sake.  But  I  thought 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  you  would  man- 
age somehow  to  put  up  with  the  noise  and  —  " 

"Jane!"  Just  like  that  he  interrupted,  and 
he  thundered,  too,  so  that  Aunt  Jane  actually 
jumped.  And  I  guess  I  did,  too.  He  had  sprung  to 
his  feet.  "Jane,  let  us  close  this  matter  once  for 


WHEN  I  AM  MARY  143 

all.  I  am  not  letting  the  child  go  for  my  sake.  I  am 
letting  her  go  for  her  own.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, if  I  consulted  no  one's  wishes  but  my 
own,  I  should  —  keep  her  here  always." 

With  that  he  turned  and  strode  from  the  room, 
leaving  Aunt  Jane  and  me  just  staring  after  him. 

But  only  for  a  minute  did  /  stare.  It  came  to 
me  then  what  he  had  said  —  that  he  would  like 
to  keep  me  here  always.  For  I  had  heard  it,  even 
if  he  had  said  the  last  word  very  low,  and  in  a 
queer,  indistinct  voice.  I  was  sure  I  had  heard  it, 
and  I  suddenly  realized  what  it  meant.  So  I  ran 
after  him;  and  that  time,  if  I  had  found  him,  I 
think  I  would  have  hugged  him.  But  I  did  n't 
find  him.  He  must  have  gone  quite  away  from 
the  house.  He  was  n't  even  out  to  the  observatory. 
I  went  out  to  see. 

He  did  n't  come  in  all  the  afternoon.  I  watched 
for  that,  too.  And  when  he  did  come  —  well,  I 
would  n't  have  dared  to  hug  him  then.  He  had  his 
very  sternest  I-am-not-thinking-of-you-at-all  air, 
and  he  just  came  in  to  supper  and  then  went  into 
the  library  without  saying  hardly  anything.  Yet, 
some  way,  the  look  on  his  face  made  me  cry.  I 
don't  know  why. 

The  next  day  he  was  more  as  he  has  been  since 
we  had  that  talk  in  the  parlor.  And  he  has  been 
different  since  then,  you  know.  He  really  has.  He 
has  talked  quite  a  lot  with  me,  as  I  have  said,  and 


144  MARY  MARIE 

I  think  he 's  been  trying,  part  of  the  time,  to  find 
something  I  '11  be  interested  in.  Honestly,  I  think 
he 's  been  trying  to  make  up  for  Carrie  Hey  wood 
and  Stella  Mayhew  and  Charlie  Smith  and  Mr. 
Livingstone.  I  think  that's  why  he  took  me  to 
walk  that  day  in  the  woods,  and  why  he  took  me 
out  to  the  observatory  to  see  the  stars  quite  a 
number  of  times.  Twice  he 's  asked  me  to  play  to 
him,  and  once  he  asked  me  if  Mary  was  n't  about 
ready  to  dress  up  in  Marie's  clothes  again.  But 
he  was  joking  then,  I  knew,  for  Aunt  Jane  was 
right  there  in  the  house.  Besides,  I  saw  the 
twinkle  in  his  eyes  that  I've  seen  there  once  or 
twice  before.  I  just  love  that  twinkle  in  Father's 
eyes ! 

But  that  has  n't  come  any  since  Mother's  let- 
ter to  Aunt  Jane  arrived.  He 's  been  the  same  in 
one  way,  yet  different  in  another.  Honestly,  if  it 
did  n't  seem  too  wildly  absurd  for  anything,  I 
should  say  he  was  actually  sorry  to  have  me  go. 
But,  of  course,  that  is  n't  possible.  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  he  said  that  day  at  the  dinner-table  that  he 
should  like  to  keep  me  always.  But  I  don't  think 
he  really  meant  it.  He  has  n't  acted  a  mite  like 
that  since,  and  I  guess  he  said  it  just  to  hush  up 
Aunt  Jane,  and  make  her  stop  arguing  the  matter. 

Anyway,  I'm  going  to-morrow.  And  I'm  so 
excited  I  can  hardly  breathe. 


CHAPTER  VI 

When  I  am  Both  Together 

Boston  again. 

Well,  I  came  last  night.  Mother  and  Grand- 
father and  Aunt  Hattie  and  Baby  Lester  all  met 
me  at  the  station.  And,  my!  was  n't  I  glad  to  see 
them?  Well,  I  just  guess  I  was! 

I  was  specially  glad  on  account  of  having  such 
a  dreadful  time  with  Father  that  morning.  I 
mean,  I  was  feeling  specially  lonesome  and  home- 
sick, and  not-belonging-anywhere  like. 

You  see,  it  was  this  way:  I'd  been  sort  of 
hoping,  I  know,  that  at  the  last,  when  I  came  to 
really  go,  Father  would  get  back  the  understand- 
ing smile  and  the  twinkle,  and  show  that  he 
really  did  care  for  me,  and  was  sorry  to  have  me 
go.  But,  dear  me!  Why,  he  never  was  so  stern 
and  solemn,  and  you  're-my-daughter-only-by- 
the-order-of-the-court  sort  of  way  as  he  was  that 
morning. 

He  never  even  spoke  at  the  breakfast-table. 
(He  was  n't  there  hardly  long  enough  to  speak, 
anyway,  and  he  never  ate  a  thing,  only  his  coffee 
—  I  mean  he  drank  it.)  Then  he  pushed  his  chair 
back  from  the  table  and  stalked  out  of  the  room. 

He  went  to  the  station  with  me;  but  he  did  n't 


146  MARY  MARIE 

talk  there  much,  only  to  ask  if  I  was  sure  I 
had  n't  forgotten  anything,  and  was  I  warmly 
clad.  Warmly  clad,  indeed!  And  there  it  was  still 
August,  and  hot  as  it  could  be!  But  that  only 
goes  to  show  how  absent-minded  he  was,  and  how 
little  he  was  really  thinking  of  me ! 

Well,  of  course,  he  got  my  ticket  and  checked 
my  trunk,  and  did  all  those  proper,  necessary 
things;  then  we  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  train. 
But  did  he  stay  with  me  and  talk  to  me  and  tell 
me  how  glad  he  had  been  to  have  me  with  him, 
and  how  sorry  he  was  to  have  me  go,  and  all  the 
other  nice,  polite  things  'most  everybody  thinks 
they've  got  to  say  when  a  visitor  goes  away?  He 
did  not.  He  asked  me  again  if  I  was  sure  I  had 
not  left  anything,  and  was  I  warmly  clad;  then 
he  took  out  his  newspaper  and  began  to  read. 
That  is,  he  pretended  to  read;  but  I  don't  believe 
he  read  much,  for  he  never  turned  the  sheet  once; 
and  twice,  when  I  looked  at  him,  he  was  looking 
fixedly  at  me,  as  if  he  was  thinking  of  something. 
So  I  guess  he  was  just  pretending  to  read,  so  he 
would  n't  have  to  talk  to  me. 

But  he  did  n't  even  do  that  long,  for  he  got  up 
and  went  over  and  looked  at  a  map  hanging  on 
the  wall  opposite,  and  at  a  big  time-table  near 
the  other  corner.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch 
again  with  a  won't-that-train-ever-come?  air,  and 
walked  back  to  me  and  sat  down. 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       147 

And  how  do  you  suppose  I  felt,  to  have  him  act 
like  that  before  all  those  people  —  to  show  so 
plainly  that  he  was  just  longing  to  have  me  go?  I 
guess  he  was  n't  any  more  anxious  for  that  train 
to  come  than  /  was.  And  it  did  seem  as  if  it  never 
would  come,  too.  And  it  did  n't  come  for  ages.  It 
was  ten  minutes  late. 

Oh,  I  did  so  hope  he  would  n't  go  down  to  the 
junction.  It's  so  hard  to  be  taken  care  of  " be- 
cause it's  my  duty,  you  know"!  But  he  went.  I 
told  him  he  need  n't,  when  he  was  getting  on  the 
train  with  me.  I  told  him  I  just  knew  I  could  do 
it  beautifully  all  by  myself,  almost-a-young  lady 
like  me.  But  he  only  put  his  lips  together  hard, 
and  said,  cold,  like  ice:  "Are  you  then  so  eager  to 
be  rid  of  me?"  Just  as  if  7  was  the  one  that  was 
eager  to  get  rid  of  somebody! 

Well,  as  I  said,  he  went.  But  he  was  n't  much 
better  on  the  train  than  he  had  been  in  the  sta- 
tion. He  was  as  nervous  and  fidgety  as  a  witch, 
and  he  acted  as  if  he  did  so  wish  it  would  be  over, 
and  over  quick.  But  at  the  junction  —  at  the 
junction  a  funny  thing  happened.  He  put  me  on 
the  train,  just  as  Mother  had  done,  and  spoke 
to  the  conductor.  (How  I  hated  to  have  him  do 
that!  Why,  I'm  six  whole  months  older,  'most, 
than  I  was  when  I  went  up  there!)  And  then, 
when  he'd  put  me  in  my  seat  (Father,  I  mean; 
not  the  conductor),  all  of  a  sudden  he  leaned 


148  MARY  MARIE 

over  and  kissed  me;  hissed  me  —  Father!  Then, 
before  I  could  speak,  or  even  look  at  him,  he 
was  gone;  and  I  did  n't  see  him  again,  though  it 
must  have  been  five  whole  minutes  before  that 
train  went. 

I  had  a  nice  trip  down  to  Boston,  though 
nothing  much  happened.  This  conductor  was 
not  near  so  nice  and  polite  as  the  one  I  had  com- 
ing up;  and  there  was  n't  any  lady  with  a  baby 
to  play  with,  nor  any  nice  young  gentleman  to 
loan  me  magazines  or  buy  candy  for  me.  But  it 
was  n't  a  very  long  ride  from  the  junction  to 
Boston,  anyway.  So  I  did  n't  mind.  Besides,  I 
knew  I  had  Mother  waiting  for  me. 

And  was  n't  I  glad  to  get  there?  Well,  I  just 
guess  I  was!  And  they  acted  as  if  they  were 
glad  to  see  me  —  Mother,  Grandfather,  Aunt 
Hattie,  and  even  Baby  Lester.  He  knew  me, 
and  remembered  me.  He'd  grown  a  lot,  too. 
And  they  said  I  had,  and  that  I  looked  very 
nice.  (I  forgot  to  say  that,  of  course,  I  had  put 
on  the  Marie  clothes  to  come  home  in  —  though 
I  honestly  think  Aunt  Jane  wanted  to  send 
me  home  in  Mary's  blue  gingham  and  calfskin 
shoes.  As  if  I'd  have  appeared  in  Boston  in  that 
rig!) 

My,  but  it  was  good  to  get  into  an  auto- 
mobile again  and  just  go!  And  it  was  so  good 
to  have  folks  around  you  dressed  in  something 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER      149 

besides  don't-care  black  alpaca  and  stiff  collars. 
And  I  said  so.  And  Mother  seemed  so  pleased. 

"You  did  want  to  come  back  to  me,  darling, 
didn't  you?"  she  cried,  giving  me  a  little  hug. 
And  she  looked  so  happy  when  I  told  her  all 
over  again  how  good  it  seemed  to  be  Marie  again* 
and  have  her  and  Boston,  and  automobiles,  and 
pretty  dresses  and  folks  and  noise  again. 

She  did  n't  say  anything  about  Father  then; 
but  later,  when  we  were  up  in  my  pretty  room 
alone,  and  I  was  taking  off  my  things,  she  made 
me  tell  her  that  Father  had  nt  won  my  love 
away  from  her,  and  that  I  did  nt  love  him  better 
than  I  did  her;  and  that  I  would  rit  rather  stay 
with  him  than  with  her. 

Then  she  asked  me  a  lot  of  questions  about 
what  I  did  there,  and  Aunt  Jane,  and  how  she 
looked,  and  Father,  and  was  he  as  fond  of  stars 
as  ever  (though  she  must  have  known  'most 
everything,  'cause  I  'd  already  written  it,  but  she 
asked  me  just  the  same).  And  she  seemed  real 
interested  in  everything  I  told  her. 

And  she  asked  was  he  lonesome;  and  I  told  her 
no,  I  did  n't  think  so;  and  that,  anyway,  he  could 
have  all  the  ladies'  company  he  wanted  by  just 
being  around  when  they  called.  And  when  she 
asked  what  I  meant,  I  told  her  about  Mrs.  Dar- 
ling, and  the  rest,  and  how  they  came  evenings 
and  Sundays,  and  how  Father  did  n't  like  them, 


150  MARY  MARIE 

but  would  flee  to  the  observatory.  And  she 
laughed  and  looked  funny,  for  a  minute.  But 
right  away  she  changed  and  looked  very  sober, 
with  the  kind  of  expression  she  has  when  she 
stands  up  in  church  and  says  the  Apostles'  Creed 
on  Sunday;  only  this  time  she  said  she  was  very 
sorry,  she  was  sure;  that  she  hoped  my  father 
would  find  some  estimable  woman  who  would 
make  a  good  home  for  him. 

Then  the  dinner-gong  sounded,  and  she  did  n't 
say  any  more. 

There  was  company  that  evening.  The  violinist. 
He  brought  his  violin,  and  he  and  Mother  played 
a  whole  hour  together.  He's  awfully  handsome. 
I  think  he 's  lovely.  Oh,  I  do  so  hope  he 's  the  one ! 
Anyhow,  I  hope  there's  some  one.  I  don't  want 
this  novel  to  all  fizzle  out  without  there  being  any 
one  to  make  it  a  love  story !  Besides,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, I  'm  particularly  anxious  that  Mother  shall 
find  somebody  to  marry  her,  so  she  '11  stop  being 
divorced,  anyway. 

A  month  later. 

Yes,  I  know  it's  been  ages  since  I've  written 
here  in  this  book;  but  there  just  has  n't  been  a 
minute's  time. 

First,  of  course,  school  began,  and  I  had  to 
attend  to  that.  And,  of  course,  I  had  to  tell  the 
girls  all  about  Andersonville  —  except  the  parts 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       151 

I  did  n't  want  to  tell,  about  Stella  Mayhew,  and 
my  coming  out  of  school.  I  did  n't  tell  that.  And 
right  here  let  me  say  how  glad  I  was  to  get  back 
to  this  school  —  a  real  school  —  so  different  from 
that  one  up  in  Anderson vi lie!  For  that  matter, 
everything's  different  here  from  what  it  is  in 
Andersonville.  I  'd  so  much  rather  be  Marie  than 
Mary.  I  know  I  won't  ever  be  Dr.  Jekyll  and 
Mr.  Hyde  here.  I'll  be  the  good  one  all  the 
time. 

It's  funny  how  much  easier  it  is  to  be  good  in 
silk  stockings  and  a  fluffy  white  dress  than  it  is  in 
blue  gingham  and  calfskin.  Oh,  I  '11  own  up  that 
Marie  forgets  sometimes  and  says  things  Mary 
used  to  say;  like  calling  Olga  a  hired  girl  instead 
of  a  maid,  as  Aunt  Hattie  wants,  and  saying  din- 
ner instead  of  luncheon  at  noon,  and  some  other 
things. 

I  heard  Aunt  Hattie  tell  Mother  one  day  that 
it  was  going  to  take  about  the  whole  six  months 
to  break  Mary  Marie  of  those  outlandish  coun- 
try ways  of  hers.  (So,  you  see,  it  is  n't  all  honey 
and  pie  even  for  Marie.  This  trying  to  be  Mary 
and  Marie,  even  six  months  apart,  is  n't  the  easi- 
est thing  ever  was!)  I  don't  think  Mother  liked 
it  very  well  —  what  Aunt  Hattie  said  about  my 
outlandish  ways.  I  did  n't  hear  all  Mother  said, 
but  I  knew  by  the  way  she  looked  and  acted,  and 
the  little  I  did  hear,  that  she  did  n't  care  for  that 


152  MARY  MARIE 

word  "outlandish"  applied  to  her  little  girl  — 
not  at  all. 

Mother 's  a  dear.  And  she 's  so  happy!  And,  by 
the  way,  I  think  it  is  the  violinist.  He's  here  a 
lot,  and  she 's  out  with  him  to  concerts  and  plays, 
and  riding  in  his  automobile.  And  she  always  puts 
on  her  prettiest  dresses,  and  she 's  very  particular 
about  her  shoes,  and  her  hats,  that  they're  be- 
coming, and  all  that.  Oh,  I  'm  so  excited !  And  I  'm 
having  such  a  good  time  watching  them!  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  watching  them  in  a  disagreeable  way, 
so  that  they  see  it;  and,  of  course,  I  don't  listen 
—  not  the  sneak  kind  of  listening.  But,  of  course, 
I  have  to  get  all  I  can  —  for  the  book,  you  know; 
and,  of  course,  if  I  just  happen  to  be  in  the  win- 
dow-seat corner  in  the  library  and  hear  things 
accidentally,  why,  that 's  all  right. 

And  I  have  heard  things. 

He  says  her  eyes  are  lovely.  He  likes  her  best 
in  blue.  He 's  very  lonely,  and  he  never  found  a 
woman  before  who  really  understood  him.  He 
thinks  her  soul  and  his  are  tuned  to  the  same 
string.  (Oh,  dear !  That  sounds  funny  and  horrid, 
and  not  at  all  the  way  it  did  when  he  said  it.  It 
was  beautiful  then.  But  —  well,  that  is  what  it 
meant,  anyway.) 

She  told  him  she  was  lonely,  too,  and  that  she 
was  very  glad  to  have  him  for  a  friend;  and  he 
said  he  prized   her  friendship  above  everything 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       153 

else  in  the  world.  And  he  looks  at  her,  and  fol- 
lows her  around  the  room  with  his  eyes;  and  she 
blushes  up  real  pink  and  pretty  lots  of  times  when 
he  comes  into  the  room. 

Now,  if  that  is  n't  making  love  to  each  other,  I 
don't  know  what  is.  I  'm  sure  he  's  going  to  pro- 
pose. Oh,  I  'm  so  excited ! 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  if  he  does  propose  and  she  says 
yes,  he'll  be  my  new  father.  I  understand  that. 
And,  of  course,  I  can't  help  wondering  how  I'll 
like  it.  Sometimes  I  think  I  won't  like  it  at  all. 
Sometimes  I  almost  catch  myself  wishing  that  I 
did  n't  have  to  have  any  new  father  or  mother. 
I'd  never  need  a  new  mother,  anyway,  and  I 
would  n't  need  a  new  father  if  my  father-by- 
order-of-the-court  would  be  as  nice  as  he  was 
there  two  or  three  times  in  the  observatory. 

But,  there!  After  all,  I  must  remember  that 
I  'm  not  the  one  that 's  doing  the  choosing.  It 's 
Mother.  And  if  she  wants  the  violinist  I  must  n't 
have  anything  to  say.  Besides,  I  really  like  him 
very  much,  anyway.  He  's  the  best  of  the  lot.  I  'm 
sure  of  that.  And  that 's  something.  And  then, 
of  course,  I'm  glad  to  have  something  to  make 
this  a  love  story,  and  best  of  all  I  would  be 
glad  to  have  Mother  stop  being  divorced,  any- 
way. 

Mr.  Harlow  does  n't  come  here  any  more,  I 
guess.  Anyway,  I  have  n't  seen  him  here  once 


154  MARY  MARIE 

since  I  came  back;  and  I  have  n't  heard  anybody 
mention  his  name. 

Quite  a  lot  of  the  others  are  here,  and  there  are 
some  new  ones.  But  the  violinist  is  here  most,  and 
Mother  seems  to  go  out  with  him  most  to  places. 
That 's  why  I  say  I  think  it 's  the  violinist. 

I  have  n't  heard  from  Father. 

Now  just  my  writing  that  down  that  way 
shows  that  I  expected  to  hear  from  him,  though 
I  don't  really  see  why  I  should,  either.  Of  course, 
he  never  has  written  to  me;  and,  of  course,  I  un- 
derstand that  I'm  nothing  but  his  daughter  by 
order  of  the  court.  But,  some  way,  I  did  think 
maybe  he  'd  write  me  just  a  little  bit  of  a  note  in 
answer  to  mine  —  my  bread-and-butter  letter, 
I  mean;  for  of  course,  Mother  had  me  write  that 
to  him  as  soon  as  I  got  here. 

But  he  has  n't. 

I  wonder  how  he 's  getting  along,  and  if  he 
misses  me  any.  But  of  course,  he  does  n't  do  that. 
If  I  was  a  star,  now  — ! 

Two  days  after  Thanksgiving. 

The  violinist  has  got  a  rival.  I'm  sure  he  has. 
It 's  Mr.  Easterbrook.  He 's  old  —  much  as  forty 
—  and  bald-headed  and  fat,  and  has  got  lots  of 
money.  And  he 's  a  very  estimable  man.  (I  heard 
Aunt  Hattie  say  that.)  He's  awfully  jolly,  and 
I  like  him.  He  brings  me  the  loveliest  boxes  of 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       155 

candy,  and  calls  me  Puss.  (I  don't  like  that,  par- 
ticularly. I  'd  prefer  him  to  call  me  Miss  Ander- 
son.) He's  not  nearly  so  good-looking  as  the  vio- 
linist. The  violinist  is  lots  more  thrilling,  but  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  Mr.  Easterbrook  was  more 
comfortable  to  live  with. 

The  violinist  is  the  kind  of  a  man  that  makes 
you  want  to  sit  up  and  take  notice,  and  have  your 
hair  and  finger  nails  and  shoes  just  right;  but 
with  Mr.  Easterbrook  you  would  n't  mind  a  bit 
sitting  in  a  big  chair  before  the  fire  with  a  pair 
of  old  slippers  on,  if  your  feet  were  tired. 

Mr.  Easterbrook  does  n't  care  for  music.  He 's 
a  broker.  He  looks  awfully  bored  when  the  vio- 
linist is  playing,  and  he  fidgets  with  his  watch- 
chain,  and  clears  his  throat  very  loudly  just  be- 
fore he  speaks  every  time.  His  automobile  is 
bigger  and  handsomer  than  the  violinist's.  (Aunt 
Hattie  says  the  violinist's  automobile  is  a  hired 
one.)  And  Mr.  Easterbrook's  flowers  that  he  sends 
to  Mother  are  handsomer,  too,  and  lots  more  of 
them,  than  the  violinist's.  Aunt  Hattie  has  no- 
ticed that,  too.  In  fact,  I  guess  there  is  n't  any- 
thing about  Mr.  Easterbrook  that  she  does  n't 
notice. 

Aunt  Hattie  likes  Mr.  Easterbrook  lots  better 
than  she  does  the  violinist.  I  heard  her  talking 
to  Mother  one  day.  She  said  that  any  one  that 
would  look  twice  at  a  lazy,  shiftless  fiddler  with 


156  MARY  MARIE 

probably  not  a  dollar  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day, 
when  all  the  while  there  was  just  waiting  to  be 
picked  an  estimable  gentleman  of  independent 
fortune  and  stable  position  like  Mr.  Easterbrook 
—  well,  she  had  her  opinion  of  her;  that 's  all. 
She  meant  Mother,  of  course.  /  knew  that.  I'm 
no  child. 

Mother  knew  it,  too;  and  she  did  n't  like  it. 
She  flushed  up  and  bit  her  lip,  and  answered 
back,  cold,  like  ice. 

"I  understand,  of  course,  what  you  mean, 
Hattie;  but  even  if  I  acknowledged  that  this  very 
estimable,  unimpeachable  gentleman  was  waiting 
to  be  picked  (which  I  do  not),  I  should  have  to 
remind  you  that  I ' ve  already  had  one  experience 
with  an  estimable,  unimpeachable  gentleman  of 
independent  fortune  and  stable  position,  and  I 
do  not  care  for  another." 

"But,  my  dear  Madge,"  began  Aunt  Hattie 
again,  "to  marry  a  man  without  any  money  — " 

"I  have  n't  married  him  yet,"  cut  in  Mother, 
cold  again,  like  ice.  "But  let  me  tell  you  this, 
Hattie.  I'd  rather  live  on  bread  and  water  in  a 
log  cabin  with  the  man  I  loved  than  in  a  pal- 
ace with  an  estimable,  unimpeachable  gentleman 
who  gave  me  the  shivers  every  time  he  came  into 
the  room." 

And  it  was  just  after  she  said  this  that  I  inter- 
rupted. I  was  right  in  plain  sight  in  the  window- 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER      157 

seat  reading;  but  I  guess  they'd  forgotten  I  was 
there,  for  they  both  jumped  a  lot  when  I  spoke. 
And  yet  I  '11  leave  it  to  you  if  what  I  said  was  n't 
perfectly  natural. 

"Of  course,  you  would,  Mother!"  I  cried. 
"And,  anyhow,  if  you  did  marry  the  violinist, 
and  you  found  out  afterward  you  did  n't  like 
him,  that  would  n't  matter  a  mite,  for  you  could 
immarry  him  at  any  time,  just  as  you  did  Father, 
and—" 

But  they  would  n't  let  me  finish.  They  would 
n't  let  me  say  anything  more.  Mother  cried,  "  Ma- 
rie!" in  her  most  I  'm-shocked-at-you  voice;  and 
Aunt  Hattie  cried,  "  Child  —  child ! "  And  she 
seemed  shocked,  too.  And  both  of  them  threw 
up  their  hands  and  looked  at  each  other  in  the 
did -you- ever- hear -such-a-dreadful-  thing?  way 
that  old  folks  do  when  young  folks  have  dis- 
pleased them.  And  then  they  both  went  right  out 
of  the  room,  talking  about  the  unfortunate  effect 
on  a  child's  mind,  and  perverted  morals,  and 
Mother  reproaching  Aunt  Hattie  for  talking 
about  those  things  before  that  child  (meaning 
me,  of  course).  Then  they  got  too  far  down  the 
hall  for  me  to  hear  any  more.  But  I  don't  see  why 
they  needed  to  have  made  such  a  fuss.  It  was  n't 
any  secret  that  Mother  got  a  divorce;  and  if  she 
got  one  once,  of  course  she  could  again.  (That 's 
what  I'm  going  to  do  when  I'm  married,  if  I 


158  MARY  MARIE 

grow  tired  of  him  —  my  husband,  I  mean.)  Oh, 
yes,  I  know  Mrs.  Mayhew  and  her  crowd  don't 
seem  to  think  divorces  are  very  nice;  but  there 
need  n't  anybody  try  to  make  me  think  that  any- 
thing my  mother  does  is  n't  perfectly  nice  and 
all  right.  And  she  got  a  divorce.  So,  there ! 

One  week  later. 

There  has  n't  much  happened  —  only  one  or 
two  things.  But  maybe  I'd  better  tell  them  be- 
fore I  forget  it,  especially  as  they  have  a  good 
deal  to  do  with  the  love  part  of  the  story.  And  I  'm 
always  so  glad  to  get  anything  of  that  kind.  I  've 
been  so  afraid  this  would  n't  be  much  of  a  love 
story,  after  all.  But  I  guess  it  will  be,  all  right. 
Anyhow,  I  know  Mother's  part  will  be,  for  it's 
getting  more  and  more  exciting  —  about  Mr. 
Easterbrook  and  the  violinist,  I  mean. 

They  both  want  Mother.  Anybody  can  see 
that  now,  and,  of  course,  Mother  sees  it.  But 
which  she'll  take  I  don't  know.  Nobody  knows. 
It 's  perfectly  plain  to  be  seen,  though,  which  one 
Grandfather  and  Aunt  Hattie  want  her  to  take! 
It 's  Mr.  Easterbrook. 

And  he  is  awfully  nice.  He  brought  me  a  per- 
fectly beautiful  bracelet  the  other  day  —  but 
Mother  would  n't  let  me  keep  it.  So  he  had  to 
take  it  back.  I  don't  think  he  liked  it  very  well, 
and  I  did  n't  like  it,  either.  I  wanted  that  bracelet. 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       159 

But  Mother  says  I  'm  much  too  young  to  wear 
much  jewelry.  Oh,  will  the  time  ever  come  when 
I  '11  be  old  enough  to  take  my  proper  place  in  the 
world?  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  it  never  would ! 

Well,  as  I  said,  it's  plain  to  be  seen  who  it  is 
that  Grandfather  and  Aunt  Hattie  favor;  but 
I'm  not  so  sure  about  Mother.  Mother  acts 
funny.  Sometimes  she  won't  go  with  either  of 
them  anywhere;  then  she  seems  to  want  to  go 
all  the  time.  And  she  acts  as  if  she  did  n't  care 
which  she  went  with,  so  long  as  she  was  just 
going  —  somewhere.  I  think,  though,  she  really 
likes  the  violinist  the  best;  and  I  guess  Grand- 
father and  Aunt  Hattie  think  so,  too. 

Something  happened  last  night.  Grandfather 
began  to  talk  at  the  dinner-table.  He'd  heard 
something  he  did  n't  like  about  the  violinist,  I 
guess,  and  he  started  in  to  tell  Mother.  But  they 
stopped  him.  Mother  and  Aunt  Hattie  looked  at 
him  and  then  at  me,  and  then  back  to  him,  in 
their  most  see-who  's-here !  —  you-must  n't-talk- 
before-her  way.  So  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
stopped. 

But  I  guess  he  told  them  in  the  library  after- 
wards, for  I  heard  them  all  talking  very  ex- 
citedly, and  some  loud;  and  I  guess  Mother  did 
n't  like  what  they  said,  and  got  quite  angry,  for 
I  heard  her  say,  when  she  came  out  through  the 
door,  that  she  did  n't  believe  a  word  of  it,  and 


160  MARY  MARIE 

she  thought  it  was  a  wicked,  cruel  shame  to  tell 
stories  like  that  just  because  they  did  n't  like  a 
man. 

This  morning  she  broke  an  engagement  with 
Mr.  Easterbrook  to  go  auto-riding  and  went  with 
the  violinist  to  a  morning  musicale  instead;  and 
after  she  'd  gone  Aunt  Hattie  sighed  and  looked 
at  Grandfather  and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
said  she  was  afraid  they'd  driven  her  straight 
into  the  arms  of  the  one  they  wanted  to  avoid, 
and  that  Madge  always  would  take  the  part  of 
the  under  dog. 

I  suppose  they  thought  I  would  n't  understand. 
But  I  did,  perfectly.  They  meant  that  by  telling 
stories  about  the  violinist  they  'd  been  hoping  to 
get  her  to  give  him  up,  but  instead  of  that,  they  'd 
made  her  turn  to  him  all  the  more,  just  because 
she  was  so  sorry  for  him. 

Funny,  is  n't  it? 

One  week  later. 

Well,  I  guess  now  something  has  happened  all 
right!  And  let  me  say  right  away  that  I  don't 
like  that  violinist  now,  either,  any  better  than 
Grandfather  and  Aunt  Hattie.  And  it's  not  en- 
tirely because  of  what  happened  last  night,  either. 
It's  been  coming  on  for  quite  a  while  —  ever 
since  I  first  saw  him  talking  to  Theresa  in  the 
hall  when  she  let  him  in  one  night  a  week  ago. 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       161 

Theresa  is  awfully  pretty,  and  I  guess  he  thinks 
so.  Anyhow,  I  heard  him  telling  her  so  in  the  hall, 
and  she  laughed  and  blushed  and  looked  side- 
ways at  him.  Then  they  saw  me,  and  he  stiffened 
up  and  said,  very  proper  and  dignified,  "Kindly 
hand  my  card  to  Mrs.  Anderson."  And  Theresa 
said,  "Yes,  sir."  And  she  was  very  proper  and 
dignified,  too. 

Well,  that  was  the  beginning.  I  can  see  now 
that  it  was,  though  I  never  thought  of  its  mean- 
ing anything  then,  only  that  he  thought  Theresa 
was  a  pretty  girl,  just  as  we  all  do. 

But  four  days  ago  I  saw  them  again.  He  tried 
to  put  his  arm  around  her  that  time,  and  the  very- 
next  day  he  tried  to  kiss  her,  and  after  a  minute 
she  let  him.  More  than  once,  too.  And  last  night 
I  heard  him  tell  her  she  was  the  dearest  girl  in 
all  the  world,  and  he'd  be  perfectly  happy  if  he 
could  only  marry  her. 

Well,  you  can  imagine  how  I  felt,  when  I 
thought  all  the  time  it  was  Mother  he  was  com- 
ing to  see !  And  now  to  find  out  that  it  was  The- 
resa he  wanted  all  the  time,  and  he  was  only 
coming  to  see  Mother  so  he  could  see  Theresa! 

At  first  I  was  angry,  —  just  plain  angry;  and 
I  was  frightened,  too,  for  I  could  n't  help  worry- 
ing about  Mother  —  for  fear  she  would  mind, 
you  know,  when  she  found  out  that  it  was  The- 
resa that  he  cared  for,  after  all.  I  remembered 


162  MARY  MARIE 

what  a  lot  Mother  had  been  with  him,  and  the 
pretty  dresses  and  hats  she  'd  put  on  for  him,  and 
all  that.  And  I  thought  how  she  'd  broken  engage- 
ments with  Mr.  Easterbrook  to  go  with  him,  and 
it  made  me  angry  all  over  again.  And  I  thought 
how  mean  it  was  of  him  to  use  poor  Mother  as  a 
kind  of  shield  to  hide  his  courting  of  Theresa!  I 
was  angry,  too,  to  have  my  love  story  all  spoiled, 
when  I  was  getting  along  so  beautifully  with 
Mother  and  the  violinist. 

But  I  'm  feeling  better  now.  I  've  been  thinking 
it  over.  I  don't  believe  Mother  's  going  to  care  so 
very  much.  I  don't  believe  she  'd  want  a  man  that 
would  pretend  to  come  courting  her,  when  all 
the  while  he  was  really  courting  the  hired  girl  — 
I  mean  maid.  Besides,  there  's  Mr.  Easterbrook 
left  (and  one  or  two  others  that  I  have  n't  said 
much  about,  as  I  did  n't  think  they  had  much 
chance) .  And  so  far  as  the  love  story  for  the  book 
is  concerned,  that  is  n't  spoiled,  after  all,  for  it 
will  be  ever  so  much  more  exciting  to  have  the 
violinist  fall  in  love  with  Theresa  than  with 
Mother,  for,  of  course,  Theresa  is  n't  in  the  same 
station  of  life  at  all,  and  that  makes  it  a  —  a 
mess-alliance.  (I  don't  remember  exactly  what 
that  word  is;  but  I  know  it  means  an  alliance 
that  makes  a  mess  of  things  because  the  lovers 
are  not  equal  to  each  other.)  Of  course,  for  the 
folks  who  have  to  live  it,  it  may  not  be  so  nice; 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       163 

but  for  my  story  here  this  makes  it  all  the  more 
romantic  and  thrilling.  So  that 's  all  right. 

Of  course,  so  far,  I  'm  the  only  one  that  knows, 
for  I  have  n't  told  it,  and  I  'm  the  only  one  that 's 
seen  anything.  Of  course,  I  shall  warn  Mother,  if 
I  think  it's  necessary,  so  she'll  understand  it 
is  n't  her,  but  Theresa,  that  the  violinist  is  really 
in  love  with  and  courting.  She  won't  mind,  I'm 
sure,  after  she  thinks  of  it  a  minute.  And  won't 
it  be  a  good  joke  on  Aunt  Hattie  and  Grand- 
father when  they  find  out  they  've  been  fooled  all 
the  time,  supposing  it's  Mother,  and  worrying 
about  it? 

Oh,  I  don't  know!  This  is  some  love  story, 
after  all ! 

Two  days  later. 

Well,  I  should  say  it  was!  What  do  you  sup- 
pose has  happened  now?  WHiy,  that  wretched 
violinist  is  nothing  but  a  deep-dyed  villain!  Lis- 
ten what  he  did.  He  proposed  to  Mother  —  ac- 
tually proposed  to  her  —  and  after  all  he  'd  said 
to  that  Theresa  girl,  about  his  being  perfectly 
happy  if  he  could  marry  her.  And  Mother  — 
Mother  all  the  time  not  knowing!  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad  I  was  there  to  rescue  her!  I  don't  mean  at 
the  proposal  —  I  did  n't  hear  that.  But  after- 
ward. 

It  was  like  this. 


164  MARY  MARIE 

They  had  been  out  automobiling  —  Mother 
and  the  violinist.  He  came  for  her  at  three  o'clock. 
He  said  it  was  a  beautiful  warm  day,  and  maybe 
the  last  one  they'd  have  this  year;  and  she  must 
go.  And  she  went. 

I  was  in  my  favorite  window-seat,  reading, 
when  they  came  home  and  walked  into  the  li- 
brary. They  never  looked  my  way  at  all,  but  just 
walked  toward  the  fireplace.  And  there  he  took 
hold  of  both  her  hands  and  said : 

"Why  must  you  wait,  darling?  Why  can't  you 
give  me  my  answer  now,  and  make  me  the  hap- 
piest man  in  all  the  world?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  answered  Mother;  and  I 
knew  by  her  voice  that  she  was  all  shaky  and 
trembly.  "But  if  I  could  only  be  sure  —  sure  of 
myself." 

"But,  dearest,  you're  sure  of  me!"  cried  the 
violinist.  "You  know  how  I  love  you.  You  know 
you  're  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved,  or  ever 
could  love!" 

Yes,  just  like  that  he  said  it  —  that  awful  lie  — 
and  to  my  mother.  My  stars!  Do  you  suppose  I 
waited  to  hear  any  more?  I  guess  not! 

I  fairly  tumbled  off  my  seat,  and  my  book 
dropped  with  a  bang,  as  I  ran  forward.  Dear, 
dear,  but  how  they  did  jump  —  both  of  them! 
And  I  guess  they  were  surprised.  I  never  thought 
how  't  was  going  to  affect  them  —  my  breaking 


'WHY  MUST  YOU  WAIT,  DARLING? 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       165 

in  like  that.  But  I  did  n't  wait  —  not  a  minute. 
And  I  didn't  apologize,  or  say  "Excuse  me," 
or  any  of  those  things  that  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  done.  I  just  started  right  in  and  began  to 
talk.  And  I  talked  hard  and  fast,  and  lots  of  it. 

I  don't  know  now  what  I  said,  but  I  know  I 
asked  him  what  he  meant  by  saying  such  an  aw- 
ful lie  to  my  mother,  when  he  'd  just  said  the  same 
thing,  exactly  'most,  to  Theresa,  and  he  'd  hugged 
her  and  kissed  her,  and  everything.  I  'd  seen  him. 
And  — 

But  I  did  n't  get  a  chance  to  say  half  I  wanted 
to.  I  was  going  on  to  tell  him  what  I  thought  of 
him;  but  Mother  gasped  out,  "Marie!  Marie! 
Stop!" 

And  then  I  stopped.  I  had  to,  of  course.  Then 
she  said  that  would  do,  and  I  might  go  to  my 
room.  And  I  went.  And  that 's  all  I  know  about 
it,  except  that  she  came  up,  after  a  little,  and  said 
for  me  not  to  talk  any  more  about  it,  to  her,  or 
to  any  one  else;  and  to  please  try  to  forget  it. 

I  tried  to  tell  her  what  I  'd  seen,  and  what  I  'd 
heard  that  wicked,  deep-dyed  villain  say;  but 
she  would  n't  let  me.  She  shook  her  head,  and 
said,  "Hush,  hush,  dear";  and  that  no  good 
could  come  of  talking  of  it,  and  she  wanted  me  to 
forget  it.  She  was  very  sweet  and  very  gentle, 
and  she  smiled;  but  there  were  stern  corners  to 
her  mouth,  even  when  the  smile  was  there.  And 


166  MARY  MARIE 

I  guess  she  told  him  what  was  what.  Anyhow,  I 
know  they  had  quite  a  talk  before  she  came  up 
to  me,  for  I  was  watching  at  the  window  for  him 
to  go;  and  when  he  did  go  he  looked  very  red  and 
cross,  and  he  stalked  away  with  a  never-will-I- 
darken-this-door-again  kind  of  a  step,  just  as  far 
as  I  could  see  him. 

I  don't  know,  of  course,  what  will  happen  next, 
nor  whether  he'll  ever  come  back  for  Theresa; 
but  I  should  n't  think  even  she  would  want  him, 
after  this,  if  she  found  out. 

And  now  where 's  my  love  story  coming  in,  I 
should  like  to  know? 

Two  days  after  Christmas. 

Another  wonderful  thing  has  happened.  I've 
had  a  letter  from  Father  —  from  Father  —  a  letter 
—  me! 

It  came  this  morning.  Mother  brought  it  in 
to  me.  She  looked  queer  —  a  little.  There  were 
two  red  spots  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were 
very  bright. 

"I  think  you  have  a  letter  here  from  —  your 
father,"  she  said,  handing  it  out. 

She  hesitated  before  the  "your  father"  just 
as  she  always  does.  And  't  is  n't  hardly  ever  that 
she  mentions  his  name,  anyway.  But  when  she 
does,  she  always  stops  a  funny  little  minute  be- 
fore it,  just  as  she  did  to-day. 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       167 

And  perhaps  I'd  better  say  right  here,  before 
I  forget  it,  that  Mother  has  been  different,  some 
way,  ever  since  that  time  when  the  violinist  pro- 
posed. I  don't  think  she  cares  really  —  about  the 
violinist,  I  mean  —  but  she's  just  sort  of  upset 
over  it.  I  heard  her  talking  to  Aunt  Hattie  one 
day  about  it,  and  she  said : 

"To  think  such  a  thing  could  happen  —  to  me! 
And  when  for  a  minute  I  was  really  hesitating 
and  thinking  that  maybe  I  would  take  him.  Oh, 
Hattie!" 

And  Aunt  Hattie  put  her  lips  together  with  her 
most  I-told-you-so  air,  and  said : 

"It  was,  indeed,  a  narrow  escape,  Madge;  and 
it  ought  to  show  you  the  worth  of  a  real  man. 
There 's  Mr.  Easterbrook,  now  — " 

But  Mother  would  n't  even  listen  then.  She 
pooh-poohed  and  tossed  her  head,  and  said,  "Mr. 
Easterbrook,  indeed!"  and  put  her  hands  to  her 
ears,  laughing,  but  in  earnest  just  the  same,  and 
ran  out  of  the  room. 

And  she  does  n't  go  so  much  with  Mr.  Easter- 
brook as  she  did.  Oh,  she  goes  with  him  some,  but 
not  enough  to  make  it  a  bit  interesting  —  for  this 
novel,  I  mean  —  nor  with  any  of  the  others, 
either.  In  fact,  I'm  afraid  there  isn't  much 
chance  now  of  Mother's  having  a  love  story  to 
make  this  book  right.  Only  the  other  day  I  heard 
her  tell  Grandfather  and  Aunt  Hattie  that  all 


168  MARY  MARIE 

men  were  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  Oh,  she  laughed 
as  she  said  it.  But  she  was  in  earnest,  just  the 
same.  I  could  see  that.  And  she  does  n't  seem  to 
care  much  for  any  of  the  different  men  that  come 
to  see  her.  She  seems  to  ever  so  much  rather  stay 
with  me.  In  fact,  she  stays  with  me  a  lot  these 
days  —  almost  all  the  time  I  'm  out  of  school, 
indeed.  And  she  talks  with  me  —  oh,  she  talks 
with  me  about  lots  of  things.  (I  love  to  have  her 
talk  with  me.  You  know  there's  a  lot  of  difference 
between  talking  with  folks  and  to  folks.  Now, 
Father  always  talks  to  folks.) 

One  day  it  was  about  getting  married  that 
Mother  talked  with  me,  and  I  said  I  was  so  glad 
that  when  you  did  n't  like  being  married,  or  got 
tired  of  your  husband,  you  could  get  unmarried, 
just  as  she  did,  and  go  back  home  and  be  just 
the  same  as  you  were  before. 

But  Mother  did  n't  like  that,  at  all.  She  said 
no,  no,  and  that  I  must  n't  talk  like  that,  and 
that  you  could  n't  go  back  and  be  the  same.  And 
that  she'd  found  it  out.  That  she  used  to  think 
you  could.  But  you  could  n't.  She  said  it  was  like 
what  she  read  once,  that  you  could  n't  really  be 
the  same  any  more  than  you  could  put  the  dress 
you  were  wearing  back  on  the  shelf  in  the  store, 
and  expect  it  to  turn  back  into  a  fine  long  web 
of  cloth  all  folded  up  nice  and  tidy,  as  it  was  in 
the  first  place.  And,  of  course,  you  could  n't  do 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       169 

that  —  after  the  cloth  was  all  cut  up  into  a 
dress ! 

She  said  more  things,  too;  and  after  Father's 
letter  came  she  said  still  more.  Oh,  and  I  have  n't 
told  yet  about  the  letter,  have  I?  Well,  I  will  now. 

As  I  said  at  first,  Mother  brought  it  in  and 
handed  it  over  to  me,  saying  she  guessed  it  was 
from  Father.  And  I  could  see  she  was  wondering 
what  could  be  in  it.  But  I  guess  she  was  n't  won- 
dering any  more  than  /  was,  only  I  was  gladder 
to  get  it  than  she  was,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  when 
she  saw  how  glad  I  was,  and  how  I  jumped  for 
the  letter,  she  drew  back,  and  looked  somehow 
as  if  she  'd  been  hurt,  and  said : 

"I  did  not  know,  Marie,  that  a  letter  from  — 
your  father  would  mean  so  much  to  you." 

I  don't  know  what  I  did  say  to  that.  I  guess  I 
did  n't  say  anything.  I  'd  already  begun  to  read 
the  letter,  and  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  find  out 
what  he  'd  said. 

I'll  copy  it  here.  It  wasn't  long.  It  was  like 
this: 

My  dear  Mary: 

Some  way  Christmas  has  made  me  think  of  you.  I 
wish  I  had  sent  you  some  gift.  Yet  I  have  not  the 
slightest  idea  what  would  please  you.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  tried  to  find  something  —  but  had  to  give  it 
up. 

I  am  wondering  if  you  had  a  good  time,  and  what 
you  did.  After  all,  I'm  pretty  sure  you  did  have  a 


170  MARY  MARIE 

good  time,  for  you  are  Marie  now.  You  see  I  have  not 
forgotten  how  tired  you  got  of  being  —  Mary.  Well, 
well,  I  do  not  know  as  I  can  blame  you. 

And  now  that  I  have  asked  what  you  did  for 
Christmas,  I  suspect  it  is  no  more  than  a  fair  turn- 
about to  tell  you  what  I  did.  I  suppose  I  had  a  very 
good  time.  Your  Aunt  Jane  says  I  did.  I  heard  her 
telling  one  of  the  neighbors  that  last  night.  She  said 
she  left  no  stone  unturned  to  give  me  a  good  time.  So, 
of  course,  I  must  have  had  a  good  time. 

She  had  a  very  fine  dinner,  and  she  invited  Mrs. 
Darling  and  Miss  Snow  and  Miss  Sanborn  to  eat  it 
with  us.  She  said  she  did  n't  want  me  to  feel  lonesome. 
But  you  can  feel  real  lonesome  in  a  crowd  sometimes. 
Did  you  know  that,  Mary? 

But  I  left  them  to  their  chatter  after  dinner  and 
went  out  to  the  observatory.  I  think  I  must  have 
fallen  asleep  on  the  couch  there,  for  it  was  quite  dark 
when  I  awoke.  But  I  did  n't  mind  that,  for  there  were 
some  observations  I  wanted  to  take.  It  was  a  beauti- 
fully clear  night,  so  I  stayed  there  till  nearly  morning. 

How  about  it?  I  suppose  Marie  plays  the  piano 
every  day  now,  does  n't  she?  The  piano  here  has  n't 
been  touched  since  you  went  away.  Oh,  yes,  it  was 
touched  once.  Your  aunt  played  hymns  on  it  for  a 
missionary  meeting. 

Well,  what  did  you  do  Christmas?  Suppose  you 
write  and  tell 

Your 

Father 

I  'd  been  reading  the  letter  out  loud,  and  when 
I  got  through  Mother  was  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room.  For  a  minute  she  did  n't  say  anything; 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER      171 

then  she  whirled  'round  suddenly  and  faced  me, 
and  said,  just  as  if  something  inside  of  her  was 
making  her  say  it: 

"I  notice  there  is  no  mention  of  your  mother 
in  that  letter,  Marie.  I  suppose  —  your  father 
has  quite  forgotten  that  there  is  such  a  person 
in  the  world  as  —  I." 

But  I  told  her  no,  oh,  no,  and  that  I  was  sure 
he  remembered  her,  for  he  used  to  ask  me  ques- 
tions often  about  what  she  did,  and  the  violinist 
and  all. 

"The  violinist!"  cried  Mother,  whirling  around 
on  me  again.  (She  'd  begun  to  walk  up  and  down 
once  more.)  "You  don't  mean  to  say  you  ever 
told  your  father  about  him ! " 

"Oh,  no,  not  everything,"  I  explained,  trying 
to  show  how  patient  I  was,  so  she  would  be  pa- 
tient, too.  (But  it  did  n't  work.)  "I  could  n't  tell 
him  everything  because  everything  had  n't  hap- 
pened then.  But  I  told  about  his  being  here,  and 
about  the  others,  too;  but,  of  course,  I  said  I  did 
n't  know  which  you'd  take,  and  — " 

"You  told  him  you  didn't  know  which  I'd 
fake ! "  gasped  Mother. 

Just  like  that  she  interrupted,  and  she  looked 
so  shocked.  And  she  did  n't  look  much  better 
when  I  explained  very  carefully  what  I  did  say, 
even  though  I  assured  her  over  and  over  again 
that  Father  was  interested,  very  much  interested. 


172  MARY  MARIE 

When  I  said  that,  she  just  muttered,  "Interested, 
indeed!"  under  her  breath.  Then  she  began  to 
walk  again,  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  Then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  she  flung  herself  on  the  couch 
and  began  to  cry  and  sob  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  And  when  I  tried  to  comfort  her,  I  only 
seemed  to  make  it  worse,  for  she  threw  her  arms 
around  me  and  cried: 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  don't  you  see 
how  dreadful  it  is,  how  dreadful  it  is?" 

And  then  is  when  she  began  to  talk  some  more 
about  being  married,  and  2mmarried  as  we  were. 
She  held  me  close  again  and  began  to  sob  and 
cry. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  don't  you  see  how  dreadful 
it  all  is  —  how  unnatural  it  is  for  us  to  live  — 
this  way?  And  for  you  —  you  poor  child! — • 
what  could  be  worse  for  you?  And  here  I  am,  jeal- 
ous —  jealous  of  your  own  father,  for  fear  you'll 
love  him  better  than  you  do  me ! 

"Oh,  I  know  I  ought  not  to  say  all  this  to  you 
—  I  know  I  ought  not  to.  But  I  can't  —  help  it. 
I  want  you!  I  want  you  every  minute;  but  I  have 
to  give  you  up  —  six  whole  months  of  every  year 
I  have  to  give  you  up  to  him.  And  he  's  your  fa- 
ther, Marie.  And  he  's  a  good  man.  I  know  he  's  a 
good  man.  I  know  it  all  the  better  now  since  I  've 
seen  —  other  men.  And  I  ought  to  tell  you  to 
love  him.  But  I'm  so  afraid  —  you'll  love  him 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       173 

better  than  you  do  me,  and  want  to  leave  —  me. 
And  I  can't  give  you  up !  I  can't  give  you  up ! " 

Then  I  tried  to  tell  her,  of  course,  that  she 
would  n't  have  to  give  me  up,  and  that  I  loved 
her  a  whole  lot  better  than  I  did  Father.  But  even 
that  did  n't  comfort  her,  'cause  she  said  I  ought 
to  love  him.  That  he  was  lonesome  and  needed 
me.  He  needed  me  just  as  much  as  she  needed 
me,  and  maybe  more.  And  then  she  went  on  again 
about  how  unnatural  and  awful  it  was  to  live  the 
way  we  were  living.  And  she  called  herself  a 
wicked  woman  that  she'd  ever  allowed  things 
to  get  to  such  a  pass.  And  she  said  if  she  could 
only  have  her  life  to  live  over  again  she'd  do  so 
differently  —  oh,  so  differently. 

Then  she  began  to  cry  again,  and  I  could  n't 
do  a  thing  with  her;  and  of  course,  that  worked 
me  all  up  and  I  began  to  cry. 

She  stopped  then,  right  off  short,  and  wiped 
her  eyes  fiercely  with  her  wet  ball  of  a  handker- 
chief. And  she  asked  what  was  she  thinking  of, 
and  did  n't  she  know  any  better  than  to  talk  like 
this  to  me.  Then  she  said,  come,  we'd  go  for  a 
ride. 

And  we  did. 

And  all  the  rest  of  that  day  Mother  was  so  gay 
and  lively  you  'd  think  she  did  n't  know  how  to 
cry. 

Now,  was  n't  that  funny? 


174  MARY  MARIE 

Of  course,  I  shall  answer  Father's  letter  right 
away,  but  I  have  n't  the  faintest  idea  what  to  say. 

One  week  later. 

I  answered  it  —  Father's  letter,  I  mean  — 
yesterday,  and  it's  gone  now.  But  I  had  an  awful 
time  over  it.  I  just  did  n't  know  what  in  the  world 
to  say.  I'd  start  out  all  right,  and  I'd  think  I 
was  going  to  get  along  beautifully.  Then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  it  would  come  over  me,  what  I  was 
doing  —  writing  a  letter  to  my  father!  And  I  could 
imagine  just  how  he'd  look  when  he  got  it,  all 
stern  and  dignified,  sitting  in  his  chair  in  the  li- 
brary, and  opening  the  letter  just  so  with  his  paper- 
cutter;  and  I  'd  imagine  his  eyes  looking  down  and 
reading  what  I  wrote.  And  when  I  thought  of 
that,  my  pen  just  would  n't  go.  The  idea  of  my 
writing  anything  my  father  would  want  to  read! 

And  so  I  'd  try  to  think  of  things  that  I  could 
write  —  big  things  —  big  things  that  would  in- 
terest big  men:  about  the  President,  and  our- 
country-'t  is-of-thee,  and  the  state  of  the  weather 
and  the  crops.  And  so  I'd  begin: 

"Dear  Father:  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  in- 
form you  that  —  " 

Then  I  'd  stop  and  think  and  think,  and  chew 
my  pen-handle.  Then  I'd  put  down  something. 
But  it  was  awful,  and  I  knew  it  was  awful.  So 
I  'd  have  to  tear  it  up  and  begin  again. 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       175 

Three  times  I  did  that;  then  I  began  to  cry.  It 
did  seem  as  if  I  never  could  write  that  letter. 
Once  I  thought  of  asking  Mother  what  to  say, 
and  getting  her  to  help  me.  Then  I  remembered 
how  she  cried  and  took  on  and  said  things  when 
the  letter  came,  and  talked  about  how  dreadful 
and  unnatural  it  all  was,  and  how  she  was  jealous 
for  fear  I'd  love  Father  better  than  I  did  her. 
And  I  was  afraid  she'd  do  it  again,  and  so  I 
did  n't  like  to  ask  her.  And  so  I  did  n't  do  it. 

Then,  after  a  time,  I  got  out  his  letter  and 
read  it  again.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  felt  all  warm 
and  happy,  just  as  I  did  when  I  first  got  it;  and 
some  way  I  was  back  with  him  in  the  observatory 
and  he  was  telling  me  all  about  the  stars.  And  I 
forgot  all  about  being  afraid  of  him,  and  about 
the  crops  and  the  President  and  my-country-'t  is- 
of-thee.  And  I  just  remembered  that  he'd  asked 
me  to  tell  him  what  I  did  on  Christmas  Day;  and 
I  knew  right  off  that  that  would  be  easy.  Why, 
just  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world!  And  so  I  got 
out  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  dipped  my  pen  in 
the  ink  and  began  again. 

And  this  time  I  did  n't  have  a  bit  of  trouble.  I 
told  him  all  about  the  tree  I  had  Christmas  Eve, 
and  the  presents,  and  the  little  colored  lights,  and 
the  fun  we  had  singing  and  playing  games.  And 
then  how,  on  Christmas  morning,  there  was  a 
lovely  new  snow  on  the  ground,  and  Mr.  Easter- 


176  MARY  MARIE 

brook  came  with  a  perfectly  lovely  sleigh  and 
two  horses  to  take  Mother  and  me  to  ride,  and 
what  a  splendid  time  we  had,  and  how  lovely 
Mother  looked  with  her  red  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes,  and  how,  when  we  got  home,  Mr.  Easter- 
brook  said  we  looked  more  like  sisters  than 
mother  and  daughter,  and  was  n't  that  nice  of  him. 
Of  course,  I  told  a  little  more  about  Mr.  Easter- 
brook,  too,  so  Father  'd  know  who  he  was  —  a  new 
friend  of  Mother's  that  I  'd  never  known  till  I  came 
back  this  time,  and  how  he  was  very  rich  and  a 
most  estimable  man.  That  Aunt  Hattie  said  so. 

Then  I  told  him  that  in  the  afternoon  another 
gentleman  came  and  took  us  to  a  perfectly  beau- 
tiful concert.  And  I  finished  up  by  telling  about 
the  Christmas  party  in  the  evening,  and  how 
lovely  the  house  looked,  and  Mother,  and  that 
they  said  I  looked  nice,  too. 

And  that  was  all.  And  when  I  had  got  it  done, 
I  saw  that  I  had  written  a  long  letter,  a  great 
long  letter.  And  I  was  almost  afraid  it  was  too 
long,  till  I  remembered  that  Father  had  asked  me 
for  it;  he  had  asked  me  to  tell  him  all  about  what 
I  did  on  Christmas  Day. 

So  I  sent  it  off. 

March, 

Yes,  I  know  it's  been  quite  a  while,  but  there 
hasn't  been  a  thing  to  say  —  nothing  new  or 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       177 

exciting,  I  mean.  There's  just  school,  and  the 
usual  things;  only  Mr.  Easterbrook  does  n't  come 
any  more.  (Of  course,  the  violinist  has  n't  come 
since  that  day  he  proposed.)  I  don't  know  whether 
Mr.  Easterbrook  proposed  or  not.  I  only  know 
that  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped  coming.  I  don't 
know  the  reason. 

I  don't  overhear  so  much  as  I  used  to,  anyway. 
Not  but  that  I  'm  in  the  library  window-seat  just 
the  same;  but  'most  everybody  that  comes  in 
looks  there  right  off,  now;  and,  of  course,  when 
they  see  me  they  don't  hardly  ever  go  on  with 
what  they  are  saying.  So  it  just  naturally  follows 
that  I  don't  overhear  things  as  I  used  to. 

Not  that  there 's  much  to  hear,  though.  Really, 
there  just  is  n't  anything  going  on,  and  things 
are  n't  half  so  lively  as  they  used  to  be  when  Mr. 
Easterbrook  was  here,  and  all  the  rest.  They've 
all  stopped  coming,  now,  'most.  I  've  about  given 
up  ever  having  a  love  story  of  Mother's  to  put  in. 

And  mine,  too.  Here  I  am  fifteen  next  month, 
going  on  sixteen.  (Why,  that  brook  and  river  met 
long  ago !)  But  Mother  is  getting  to  be  almost  as 
bad  as  Aunt  Jane  was  about  my  receiving  proper 
attentions  from  young  men.  Oh,  she  lets  me  go 
to  places,  a  little,  with  the  boys  at  school;  but  I 
always  have  to  be  chaperoned.  And  whenever 
are  they  going  to  have  a  chance  to  say  any- 
thing really  thrilling  with  Mother  or  Aunt  Hattie 


178  MARY  MARIE 

right  at  my  elbow?  Echo  answers  never!  So  I've 
about  given  up  that's  amounting  to  anything, 
either. 

Of  course,  there's  Father  left,  and  of  course, 
when  I  go  back  to  Andersonville  this  summer, 
there  may  be  something  doing  there.  But  I 
doubt  it. 

I  forgot  to  say  I  have  n't  heard  from  Father 
again.  I  answered  his  Christmas  letter,  as  I  said, 
and  wrote  just  as  nice  as  I  knew  how,  and  told 
him  all  he  asked  me  to.  But  he  never  answered, 
nor  wrote  again.  I  am  disappointed,  I  '11  own  up. 
I  thought  he  would  write.  I  think  Mother  did, 
too.  She's  asked  me  ever  so  many  times  if  I 
had  n't  heard  from  him  again.  And  she  always 
looks  so  sort  of  funny  when  I  say  no  —  sort  of 
glad  and  sorry  together,  all  in  one. 

But,  then,  Mother 's  queer  in  lots  of  ways  now. 
For  instance:  One  week  ago  she  gave  me  a  per- 
fectly lovely  box  of  chocolates  —  a  whole  two- 
pound  box  all  at  once;  and  I've  never  had  more 
than  a  half-pound  at  once  before.  But  just  as  I 
was  thinking  how  for  once  I  was  going  to  have  a 
real  feast,  and  all  I  wanted  to  eat  —  what  do  you 
think  she  told  me?  She  said  I  could  have  three 
pieces,  and  only  three  pieces  a  day;  and  not  one 
little  tiny  one  more.  And  when  I  asked  her  why 
she  gave  me  such  a  big  box  for,  then,  if  that  was 
all  I  could  have,  she  said  it  was  to  teach  me  self- 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       179 

discipline.  That  self-discipline  was  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  things  in  the  world.  That  if  she  'd 
only  been  taught  it  when  she  was  a  girl,  her  life 
would  have  been  very,  very  different.  And  so  she 
was  giving  me  a  great  big  box  of  chocolates  for 
my  very  own,  just  so  as  to  teach  me  to  deny  my- 
self and  take  only  three  pieces  every  day. 

Three  pieces !  —  and  all  that  whole  big  box  of 
them  just  making  my  mouth  water  all  the  while; 
and  all  just  to  teach  me  that  horrid  old  self -disci- 
pline! Why,  you'd  think  it  was  Aunt  Jane  doing 
it  instead  of  Mother! 

One  week  later. 

It's  come  —  Father's  letter.  It  came  last  night. 
Oh,  it  was  short,  and  it  did  n't  say  anything 
about  what  I  wrote.  But  I  was  proud  of  it,  just 
the  same.  I  just  guess  I  was !  There  was  n't  much 
in  it  but  just  that  I  might  stay  till  the  school 
closed  in  June,  and  then  come.  But  he  wrote  it. 
He  did  n't  get  Aunt  Jane  to  write  to  Mother,  as 
he  did  before.  And  then,  besides,  he  must  have 
forgotten  his  stars  long  enough  to  think  of  me  a 
little  —  for  he  remembered  about  the  school,  and 
that  I  could  n't  go  there  in  Andersonville,  and  so 
he  said  I  had  better  stay  here  till  it  finished. 

And  I  was  so  glad  to  stay!  It  made  me  very 
happy  —  that  letter.  It  made  Mother  happy,  too. 
She  liked  it,  and  she  thought  it  was  very,  very 


180  MARY  MARIE 

kind  of  Father  to  be  willing  to  give  me  up  almost 
three  whole  months  of  his  six,  so  I  could  go  to 
school  here.  And  she  said  so.  She  said  once 
to  Aunt  Hattie  that  she  was  almost  tempted  to 
write  and  thank  him.  But  Aunt  Hattie  said, 
"Pooh,"  and  it  was  no  more  than  he  ought  to 
do,  and  that  she  would  n't  be  seen  writing  to  a 
man  who  so  carefully  avoided  writing  to  her.  So 
Mother  did  n't  do  it,  I  guess. 

But  I  wrote.  I  had  to  write  three  letters, 
though,  before  I  got  one  that  Mother  said  would 
do  to  send.  The  first  one  sounded  so  glad  I  was 
staying  that  Mother  said  she  was  afraid  he  would 
feel  hurt,  and  that  would  be  too  bad  — when  he  'd 
been  so  kind.  And  the  second  one  sounded  as  if  I 
was  so  sorry  not  to  go  to  Andersonville  the  first 
of  April  that  Mother  said  that  would  never  do  in 
the  world.  He  'd  think  I  did  n't  want  to  stay  in 
Boston.  But  the  third  letter  I  managed  to  make 
just  glad  enough  to  stay,  and  just  sorry  enough 
not  to  go.  So  that  Mother  said  it  was  all  right. 
And  I  sent  it.  You  see  I  asked  Mother  to  help  me 
about  this  letter.  I  knew  she  would  n't  cry  and 
moan  about  being  jealous  this  time.  And  she 
did  n't.  She  was  real  excited  and  happy  over  it. 

April 

Well,  the  last  chocolate  drop  went  yesterday. 
There  were  just  seventy-six  pieces  in  that  two- 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       181 

pound  box.  I  counted  them  that  first  day.  Of 
course,  they  were  fine  and  dandy,  and  I  just 
loved  them;  but  the  trouble  is,  for  the  last  week 
I've  been  eating  such  snippy  little  pieces.  You 
see,  every  day,  without  thinking,  I'd  just  natu- 
rally pick  out  the  biggest  pieces.  So  you  can 
imagine  what  they  got  down  to  toward  the  last 
—  mostly  chocolate  almonds. 

As  for  the  self -discipline  —  I  don't  see  as  I 
feel  any  more  disciplined  than  I  did  before,  and 
I  know  I  want  chocolates  just  as  much  as  ever* 
And  I  said  so  to  Mother. 

But  Mother  is  queer.  Honestly  she  is.  And  I 
can't  help  wondering  —  is  she  getting  to  be  like 
Aunt  Jane? 

Now,  listen  to  this: 

Last  week  I  had  to  have  a  new  party  dress, 
and  we  found  a  perfect  darling  of  a  pink  silk,  all 
gold  beads,  and  gold  slippers  to  match.  And  I 
knew  I'd  look  perfectly  divine  in  it;  and  once 
Mother  would  have  got  it  for  me.  But  not  this 
time.  She  got  a  horrid  white  muslin  with  dots  in 
it,  and  a  blue  silk  sash,  suitable  for  a  child  —  for 
any  child. 

Of  course,  I  was  disappointed,  and  I  suppose 
I  did  show  it  —  some.  In  fact,  I'm  afraid  I 
showed  it  a  whole  lot.  Mother  did  n't  say  any- 
thing then;  but  on  the  way  home  in  the  car  she 
put  her  arm  around  me  and  said: 


182  MARY  MARIE 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  pink  dress,  dear.  I  knew 
you  wanted  it.  But  it  was  not  suitable  at  all  for 
you  —  not  until  you're  older,  dear." 

She  stopped  a  minute,  then  went  on  with  an- 
other little  hug: 

"Mother  will  have  to  look  out  that  her  little 
daughter  is  n't  getting  to  be  vain,  and  too  fond 
of  dress." 

I  knew  then,  of  course,  that  it  was  just  some 
more  of  that  self -discipline  business. 

But  Mother  never  used  to  say  anything  about 
self -discipline. 

Is  she  getting  to  be  like  Aunt  Jane? 

One  week  later. 

She  is. 

I  know  she  is  now. 

I'm  learning  to  cook  —  to  cook!  And  it's 
Mother  that  says  I  must.  She  told  Aunt  Hattie 
—  I  heard  her  —  that  she  thought  every  girl 
should  know  how  to  cook  and  to  keep  house;  and 
that  if  she  had  learned  those  things  when  she 
was  a  girl,  her  life  would  have  been  quite  dif- 
ferent, she  was  sure. 

Of  course,  I'm  not  learning  in  Aunt  Hattie's 
kitchen.  Aunt  Hattie  's  got  a  new  cook,  and  she 's 
worse  than  Olga  used  to  be  —  about  not  want- 
ing folks  messing  around,  I  mean.  So  Aunt 
Hattie  said  right  off  that  we  could  n't  do  it 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       183 

there.  I  am  learning  at  a  Domestic  Science 
School,  and  Mother  is  going  with  me.  I  did  n't 
mind  so  much  when  she  said  she  'd  go,  too.  And, 
really,  it  is  quite  a  lot  of  fun  —  really  it  is.  But 
it  is  queer  —  Mother  and  I  going  to  school  to- 
gether to  learn  how  to  make  bread  and  cake 
and  boil  potatoes!  And,  of  course,  Aunt  Hattie 
laughs  at  us.  But  I  don't  mind.  And  Mother 
does  n't,  either.  But,  oh,  how  Aunt  Jane  would 
love  it,  if  she  only  knew! 

May. 

Something  is  the  matter  with  Mother,  cer- 
tainly. She's  acting  queerer  and  queerer,  and 
she  is  getting  to  be  like  Aunt  Jane.  Why,  only 
this  morning  she  hushed  me  up  from  laughing  so 
loud,  and  stopped  my  romping  up  and  down  the 
stairs  with  Lester.  She  said  it  was  noisy  and  un- 
ladylike—  and  only  just  a  little  while  ago  she 
just  loved  to  have  me  laugh  and  play  and  be 
happy!  And  when  I  said  so  to  her  this  morning, 
she  said,  yes,  yes,  of  course,  and  she  wanted  me 
to  be  happy  now,  only  she  wished  to  remind  me 
that  very  soon  I  was  going  back  to  my  father  in 
Andersonville,  and  that  I  ought  to  begin  now  to 
learn  to  be  more  quiet,  so  as  not  to  trouble  him 
when  I  got  there. 

Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that? 

And  another  thing.  What  do  you  suppose  I  am 


184  MARY  MARIE 

learning  about  now?  You'd  never  guess.  Stars. 
Yes,  stars !  And  that  is  for  Father,  too. 

Mother  came  into  my  room  one  day  with  a 
book  of  Grandfather's  under  her  arm.  She  said 
it  was  a  very  wonderful  work  on  astronomy,  and 
she  was  sure  I  would  find  it  interesting.  She  said 
she  was  going  to  read  it  aloud  to  me  an  hour  a 
day.  And  then,  when  I  got  to  Andersonville  and 
Father  talked  to  me,  I'd  know  something.  And 
he'd  be  pleased. 

She  said  she  thought  we  owed  it  to  Father, 
after  he'd  been  so  good  and  kind  as  to  let  me 
stay  here  almost  three  whole  months  of  his  six, 
so  I  could  keep  on  with  my  school.  And  that  she 
was  very  sure  this  would  please  him  and  make 
him  happy. 

And  so,  for  'most  a  week  now,  Mother  has 
read  to  me  an  hour  a  day  out  of  that  astronomy 
book.  Then  we  talk  about  it.  And  it  is  interest- 
ing. Mother  says  it  is,  too.  She  says  she  wishes 
she'd  known  something  about  astronomy  when 
she  was  a  girl;  that  she's  sure  it  would  have 
made  things  a  whole  lot  easier  and  happier  all 
around,  when  she  married  Father;  for  then  she 
would  have  known  something  about  something 
he  was  interested  in.  She  said  she  could  n't  help 
that  now,  of  course;  but  she  could  see  that  / 
knew  something  about  such  things.  And  that 
was  why  she  was  reading  to  me  now.  Then  she 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       185 

said  again  that  she  thought  we  owed  it  to  Father, 
when  he'd  been  so  good  to  let  me  stay.  * 

It  seems  so  funny  to  hear  her  talk  such  a  lot 
about  Father  as  she  does,  when  before  she  never 
used  to  mention  him  —  only  to  say  how  afraid 
she  was  that  I  would  love  him  better  than  I  did 
her,  and  to  make  me  say  over  and  over  again 
that  I  did  n't.  And  I  said  so  one  day  to  her  —  I 
mean,  I  said  I  thought  it  was  funny,  the  way 
she  talked  now. 

She  colored  up  and  bit  her  lip,  and  gave  a 
queer  little  laugh.  Then  she  grew  very  sober  and 
grave,  and  said: 

"I  know,  dear.  Perhaps  I  am  talking  more 
than  I  used  to.  But,  you  see,  I  've  been  thinking 
quite  a  lot,  and  I  —  I've  learned  some  things. 
And  now,  since  your  father  has  been  so  kind  and 
generous  in  giving  you  up  to  me  so  much  of 
his  time,  I  —  I've  grown  ashamed;  and  I'm 
trying  to  make  you  forget  what  I  said  —  about 
your  loving  me  more  than  him.  That  was  n't 
right,  dear.  Mother  was  wrong.  She  should  n't 
try  to  influence  you  against  your  father.  He  is  a 
good  man;  and  there  are  none  too  many  good 
men  in  the  world  —  No,  no,  I  won't  say  that,'* 
she  broke  off. 

But  she'd  already  said  it,  and,  of  course,  I 
knew  she  was  thinking  of  the  violinist.  I  'm  no 
child. 


186  MARY  MARIE 

She  went  on  more  after  that,  quite  a  lot  more. 
And  she  said  again  that  I  must  love  Father  and 
try  to  please  him  in  every  way;  and  she  cried  a 
little  and  talked  a  lot  about  how  hard  it  was  in 
my  position,  and  that  she  was  afraid  she'd  only 
been  making  it  harder,  through  her  selfishness, 
and  I  must  forgive  her,  and  try  to  forget  it.  And 
she  was  very  sure  she  'd  do  better  now.  And  she 
said  that,  after  all,  life  was  n't  in  just  being 
happy  yourself.  It  was  in  how  much  happiness 
you  could  give  to  others. 

Oh,  it  was  lovely!  And  I  cried,  and  she  cried 
some  more,  and  we  kissed  each  other,  and  I 
promised.  And  after  she  went  away  I  felt  all  up- 
raised and  holy,  like  you  do  when  you've  been 
to  a  beautiful  church  service  with  soft  music 
and  colored  windows,  and  everybody  kneeling. 
And  I  felt  as  if  I  'd  never  be  naughty  or  thought- 
less again.  And  that  I  'd  never  mind  being  Mary 
now.  Why,  I  'd  be  glad  to  be  Mary  half  the  time, 
and  even  more  —  for  Father. 

But,  alas! 

Listen.  Would  you  believe  it?  Just  that  same 
evening  Mother  stopped  me  again  laughing  too 
loud  and  making  too  much  noise  playing  with 
Lester;  and  I  felt  real  cross.  I  just  boiled  inside 
of  me,  and  said  I  hated  Mary,  and  that  Mother 
was  getting  to  be  just  like  Aunt  Jane.  And  yet, 
just  that  morning  — 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       187 

Oh,  if  only  that  hushed,  stained-window-soft- 
music  feeling  would  last ! 

June. 

Well,  once  more  school  is  done,  my  trunk  is  all 
packed,  and  I'm  ready  to  go  to  Anderson ville. 
I  leave  to-morrow  morning.  But  not  as  I  left  last 
year.  Oh,  no.  It  is  very,  very  different.  Why, 
this  year  I'm  really  going  as  Mary.  Honestly, 
Mother  has  turned  me  into  Mary  before  I  go. 
Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  And  if  I've 
got  to  be  Mary  there  and  Mary  here,  too,  when 
can  I  ever  be  Marie?  Oh,  I  know  I  said  I'd  be 
willing  to  be  Mary  half,  and  maybe  more  than 
half,  the  time.  But  when  it  comes  to  really  being 
Mary  out  of  turn  extra  time,  that  is  quite  an- 
other thing. 

And  I  am  Mary. 

Listen : 

I've  learned  to  cook.  That's  Mary. 

I've  been  studying  astronomy.  That's  Mary. 

I've  learned  to  walk  quietly,  speak  softly, 
laugh  not  too  loudly,  and  be  a  lady  at  all  times. 
That's  Mary. 

And  now,  to  add  to  all  this,  Mother  has  had 
me  dress  like  Mary.  Yes,  she  began  two  weeks 
ago.  She  came  into  my  room  one  morning  and 
said  she  wanted  to  look  over  my  dresses  and 
things;  and  I  could  see,  by  the  way  she  frowned 


188  MARY  MARIE 

and  bit  her  lip  and  tapped  her  foot  on  the  floor, 
that  she  was  n't  suited.  And  I  was  glad;  for,  of 
course,  I  always  like  to  have  new  things.  So  I 
was  pleased  when  she  said: 

"I  think,  my  dear,  that  on  Saturday  we '11  have 
to  go  in  town  shopping.  Quite  a  number  of  these 
things  will  not  do  at  all." 

And  I  was  so  happy!  Visions  of  new  dresses 
and  hats  and  shoes  rose  before  me,  and  even  the 
pink  beaded  silk  came  into  my  mind  —  though 
I  did  n't  really  have  much  hopes  of  that. 

Well,  we  went  shopping  on  Saturday,  but  — 
did  we  get  the  pink  silk?  We  did  not.  We  did 
get  —  you  'd  never  guess  what.  We  got  two  new 
gingham  dresses,  very  plain  and  homely,  and  a 
pair  of  horrid,  thick  low  shoes.  Why,  I  could 
have  cried!  I  did  'most  cry  as  I  exclaimed: 

"Why,  Mother,  those  are  Mary  things!" 

"Of  course,  they're  Mary  things,"  answered 
Mother,  cheerfully  —  the  kind  of  cheerfulness 
that  says:  "I'm  being  good  and  you  ought  to 
be."  Then  she  went  on.  "That's  what  I  meant 
to  buy  —  Mary  things,  as  you  call  them.  Are  n't 
you  going  to  be  Mary  just  next  week?  Of  course, 
you  are !  And  did  n't  you  tell  me  last  year,  as 
soon  as  you  got  there,  Miss  Anderson  objected 
to  your  clothing  and  bought  new  for  you?  Well, 
I  am  trying  to  see  that  she  does  not  have  to  do 
that  this  year." 


WHEN  I  AM  BOTH  TOGETHER       189 

And  then  she  bought  me  a  brown  serge  suit 
and  a  hat  so  tiresomely  sensible  that  even  Aunt 
Jane  will  love  them,  I  know.  And  to-morrow 
I ' ve  got  to  put  them  on  to  go  in. 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  say  I  am  Mary  already? 


CHAPTER  Vn 

When  I  am  Neither  One 

Andersonville. 

Well,  I  came  last  night.  I  had  on  the  brown 
suit  and  the  sensible  hat,  and  every  turn  of  the 
wheels  all  day  had  been  singing:  "Mary,  Mary, 
now  you're  Mary!"  Why,  Mother  even  called 
me  Mary  when  she  said  good-bye.  She  came  to 
the  junction  with  me  just  as  she  had  before,  and 
put  me  on  the  other  train. 

"Now,  remember,  dear,  you're  to  try  very 
hard  to  be  a  joy  and  a  comfort  to  your  father  — • 
just  the  little  Mary  that  he  wants  you  to  be. 
Remember,  he  has  been  very  kind  to  let  you 
stay  with  me  so  long." 

She  cried  when  she  kissed  me  just  as  she  did 
before;  but  she  didn't  tell  me  this  time  to  be 
sure  and  not  love  Father  better  than  I  did  her. 
I  noticed  that.  But,  of  course,  I  did  n't  say  any- 
thing, though  I  might  have  told  her  easily  that 
I  knew  nothing  could  ever  make  me  love  him 
better  than  I  did  her. 

But  I  honestly  tried,  as  long  as  I  was  dressed 
like  Mary,  to  feel  like  Mary;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  would  be  Mary,  too,  just  as  well 
as  I  knew  how  to  be,  so  that  even  Aunt  Jane 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  191 

could  n't  find  any  fault  with  me.  And  I  'd  try  to 
please  Father,  and  make  him  not  mind  my  being 
there,  even  if  I  could  n't  make  him  love  me. 
And  as  I  got  to  thinking  of  it,  I  was  glad  that  I 
had  on  the  Mary  things,  so  I  wouldn't  have 
to  make  any  change.  Then  I  could  show  Aunt 
Jane  that  I  was  really  going  to  be  Mary,  right 
along  from  the  start,  when  she  met  me  at  the 
station.  And  I  would  show  Father,  too,  if  he 
was  at  home.  And  I  could  n't  help  hoping  he 
would  be  home  this  time,  and  not  off  to  look  at 
any  old  stars  or  eclipses. 

When  we  got  to  Andersonville,  and  the  train 
rolled  into  the  station,  I  'most  forgot,  for  a 
minute,  and  ran  down  the  aisle,  so  as  to  get  out 
quick.  I  was  so  excited !  But  right  away  I  thought 
of  Aunt  Jane  and  that  she  might  see  me;  so  I 
slowed  down  to  a  walk,  and  I  let  quite  a  lot  of 
other  folks  get  ahead  of  me,  as  I  was  sure  Mary 
ought  to.  You  see,  I  was  determined  to  be  a  good 
little  Mary  from  the  very  start,  so  that  even 
Aunt  Jane  could  n't  find  a  word  of  fault  —  not 
even  with  my  actions.  I  knew  she  could  n't  with 
my  clothes ! 

Well,  I  stepped  down  from  the  cars  and  looked 
over  to  where  the  carriages  were  to  find  John 
and  Aunt  Jane.  But  they  were  n't  there.  There 
wasn't  even  the  carriage  there;  and  I  can  re- 
member now  just  how  my  heart  sort  of  felt  sick 


192  MARY  MARIE 

inside  of  me  when  I  thought  that  even  Aunt 
Jane  had  forgotten,  and  that  there  was  n't  any- 
body to  meet  me. 

There  was  a  beautiful  big  green  automobile 
there,  and  I  thought  how  I  wished  that  had  come 
to  meet  me;  and  I  was  just  wondering  what  I 
should  do,  when  all  of  a  sudden  somebody  spoke 
my  name.  And  who  do  you  think  it  was?  You'd 
never  guess  it  in  a  month.  It  was  Father.  Yes, 
Father ! 

Why,  I  could  have  hugged  him,  I  was  so  glad. 
But  of  course  I  didn't,  right  before  all  those 
people.  But  he  was  so  tall  and  handsome  and 
splendid,  and  I  felt  so  proud  to  be  walking  along 
the  platform  with  him  and  letting  folks  see  that 
he  'd  come  to  meet  me !  But  I  could  n't  say  any- 
thing —  not  anything,  the  way  I  wanted  to;  and 
all  I  could  do  was  to  stammer  out: 

"Why,  where 's  Aunt  Jane?" 

And  that's  just  the  thing  I  didn't  want  to 
say;  and  I  knew  it  the  minute  I'd  said  it.  Why, 
it  sounded  as  if  I  missed  Aunt  Jane,  and  wanted 
her  instead  of  him,  when  all  the  time  I  was  so 
pleased  and  excited  to  see  him  that  I  could 
hardly  speak. 

I  don't  know  whether  Father  liked  it,  or 
minded  it.  I  could  n't  tell  by  his  face.  He  just 
kind  of  smiled,  and  looked  queer,  and  said  that 
Aunt  Jane  —  er  —  could  n't  come.  Then  I  felt 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  193 

sorry;  for  I  saw,  of  course,  that  that  was  why  he 
had  come;  not  because  he  wanted  to,  but  be- 
cause Aunt  Jane  could  n't,  so  he  had  to.  And  I 
could  have  cried,  all  the  while  he  was  fixing  it  up 
about  my  trunk. 

He  turned  then  and  led  the  way  straight  over 
to  where  the  carriages  were,  and  the  next  minute 
there  was  John  touching  his  cap  to  me;  only  it 
was  a  brand-new  John  looking  too  sweet  for 
anything  in  a  chauffeur's  cap  and  uniform.  And, 
what  do  you  think?  He  was  helping  me  into  that 
beautiful  big  green  car  before  I  knew  it. 

"Why,  Father,  Father!"  I  cried.  "You  don't 
mean  —  "I  just  could  n't  finish;  but  he  finished 
for  me. 

"It  is  ours  —  yes.  Do  you  like  it?" 

"Like  it!"  I  guess  he  did  n't  need  to  have  me 
say  any  more.  But  I  did  say  more.  I  just  raved 
and  raved  over  that  car  until  Father's  eyes 
crinkled  all  up  in  little  smile  wrinkles,  and  he 
said : 

"I'm  glad.  I  hoped  you'd  like  it." 

"I  guess  I  do  like  it!"  I  cried.  Then  I  went  on 
to  tell  him  how  I  thought  it  was  the  prettiest  one 
I  ever  saw,  and  'way  ahead  of  even  Mr.  Easter- 
brook's. 

"And,  pray,  who  is  Mr.  Easterbrook?"  asked 
Father  then.  "The  violinist,  perhaps  —  eh?" 

Now,  was  n't  it  funny  he  should  have  remem- 


194  MARY  MARIE 

bered  that  there  was  a  violinist?  But,  of  course, 
I  told  him  no,  it  was  n't  the  violinist.  It  was 
another  one  that  took  Mother  to  ride,  the  one 
I  told  him  about  in  the  Christmas  letter;  and 
he  was  very  rich,  and  had  two  perfectly  beauti- 
ful cars;  and  I  was  going  on  to  tell  more  — 
how  he  did  n't  take  Mother  now  —  but  I  did  n't 
get  a  chance,  for  Father  interrupted,  and  said, 
"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure."  And  he  showed  he  was  n't 
interested,  for  all  the  little  smile  wrinkles  were 
gone,  and  he  looked  stern  and  dignified,  more 
like  he  used  to.  And  he  went  on  to  say  that,  as 
we  had  almost  reached  home,  he  had  better 
explain  right  away  that  Aunt  Jane  was  no  longer 
living  there;  that  his  cousin  from  the  West,  Mrs. 
Whitney,  was  keeping  house  for  him  now.  She 
was  a  very  nice  lady,  and  he  hoped  I  would  like 
her.  And  I  might  call  her  "Cousin  Grace." 

And  before  I  could  even  draw  breath  to  ask 
any  questions,  we  were  home;  and  a  real  pretty 
lady,  with  a  light-blue  dress  on,  was  helping  me 
out  of  the  car,  and  kissing  me  as  she  did  so. 

Now,  do  you  wonder  that  I  have  been  rubbing 
my  eyes  and  wondering  if  I  was  really  I,  and  if 
this  was  Andersonville?  Even  now  I'm  not  sure 
but  it's  a  dream,  and  I  shall  wake  up  and  find 
I  've  gone  to  sleep  on  the  cars,  and  that  the  train 
is  just  drawing  into  the  station,  and  that  John 
and  the  horses,  and  Aunt  Jane  in  her  I-don't- 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  195 

care-how-it-looks  black  dress  are  there  to  meet 
me. 

One  week  later. 

It  is  n't  a  dream.  It 's  all  really,  truly  true  — 
everything:  Father  coming  to  meet  me,  the  lovely 
automobile,  and  the  pretty  lady  in  the  light-blue 
dress,  who  kissed  me.  And  when  I  went  down- 
stairs the  next  morning  I  found  out  it  was  real, 
'specially  the  pretty  lady;  for  she  kissed  me  again, 
and  said  she  hoped  I  'd  be  happy  there.  And  she 
never  said  one  word  about  dusting  one  hour  and 
studying  one  hour  and  weeding  one  hour.  (Of 
course,  she  could  n't  say  anything  about  my 
clothes,  for  I  was  already  in  a  Mary  blue-ging- 
ham dress.)  She  just  told  me  to  amuse  myself 
any  way  I  liked,  and  said,  if  I  wanted  to,  I  might 
run  over  to  see  some  of  the  girls,  but  not  to  make 
any  plans  for  the  afternoon,  for  she  was  going  to 
take  me  to  ride. 

Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Go  to  see  the 
girls  in  the  morning,  and  take  a  ride  —  an  auto- 
mobile ride !  —  in  the  afternoon.  In  Anderson- 
ville  I  Why,  I  could  n't  believe  my  ears.  Of  course, 
I  was  wild  and  crazy  with  delight  —  but  it  was 
all  so  different.  Why,  I  began  to  think  almost 
that  I  was  Marie,  and  not  Mary  at  all. 

And  it 's  been  that  way  the  whole  week  through. 
I've  had  a  beautiful  time.  I've  been  so  excited! 


196  MARY  MARIE 

And  Mother  is  excited,  too.  Of  course,  I  wrote  her 
and  told  her  all  about  it  right  away.  And  she 
wrote  right  back  and  wanted  to  know  everything 
—  everything  I  could  tell  her;  all  the  little  things. 
And  she  was  so  interested  in  Cousin  Grace,  and 
wanted  to  know  all  about  her;  said  she  never 
heard  of  her  before,  and  was  she  Father's  own 
cousin,  and  how  old  was  she,  and  was  she  pretty, 
and  was  Father  around  the  house  more  now,  and 
did  I  see  a  lot  of  him?  She  thought  from  some- 
thing I  said  that  I  did. 

I've  just  been  writing  her  again,  and  I  could 
tell  her  more  now,  of  course,  than  I  could  in  that 
first  letter.  I ' ve  been  here  a  whole  week,  and,  of 
course,  I  know  more  about  things,  and  have  done 
more. 

I  told  her  that  Cousin  Grace  wasn't  really 
Father's  cousin  at  all,  so  it  was  n't  any  wonder 
she  had  n't  ever  heard  of  her.  She  was  the  wife  of 
Father's  third  cousin  who  went  to  South  America 
six  years  ago  and  caught  the  fever  and  died  there. 
So  this  Mrs.  Whitney  is  n't  really  any  relation  of 
his  at  all.  But  he  'd  always  known  her,  even  be- 
fore she  married  his  cousin;  and  so,  when  her  hus- 
band died,  and  she  did  n't  have  any  home,  he 
asked  her  to  come  here. 

I  don't  know  why  Aunt  Jane  went  away,  but 
she 's  been  gone  'most  four  months  now,  they  say 
here.  Nellie  told  me.  Nellie  is  the  maid  —  I  mean 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  197 

hired  girl  —  here  now.  (I  will  keep  forgetting 
that  I'm  Mary  now  and  must  use  the  Mary 
words  here.) 

I  told  Mother  that  she  (Cousin  Grace)  was 
quite  old,  but  not  so  old  as  Aunt  Jane.  (I  asked 
Nellie,  and  Nellie  said  she  guessed  she  was  thirty- 
five,  but  she  did  n't  look  a  day  over  twenty-five.) 
And  she  is  pretty,  and  everybody  loves  her.  I 
think  even  Father  likes  to  have  her  around  better 
than  he  did  his  own  sister  Jane,  for  he  sometimes 
stays  around  quite  a  lot  now  —  after  meals,  and 
in  the  evening,  I  mean.  And  that's  what  I  told 
Mother.  Oh,  of  course,  he  still  likes  his  stars  the 
best  of  anything,  but  not  quite  as  well  as  he  used 
to,  maybe  —  not  to  give  all  his  time  to  them. 

I  have  n't  anything  especial  to  write.  I'm  just 
having  a  beautiful  time.  Of  course,  I  miss  Mother, 
but  I  know  I'm  going  to  have  her  again  in  just 
September  —  I  forgot  to  say  that  Father  is  going 
to  let  me  go  back  to  school  again  this  year  ahead 
of  his  time,  just  as  he  did  last  year. 

So  you  see,  really,  I  'm  here  only  a  little  bit  of 
a  while,  as  it  is  now,  and  it's  no  wonder  I  keep 
forgetting  I  am  Mary. 

I  have  n't  got  anything  new  for  the  love  part  of 
my  story.  I  am  sorry  about  that.  But  there  just 
is  n't  anything,  so  I  'm  afraid  the  book  never  will 
be  a  love  story,  anyway. 

Of  course,  I  'm  not  with  Mother  now,  so  I  don't 


198  MARY  MARIE 

know  whether  there's  anything  there,  or  not;  but 
I  don't  think  there  will  be.  And  as  for  Father  — 
I've  pretty  nearly  given  him  up.  Anyhow,  there 
never  used  to  be  any  signs  of  hope  for  me  there. 
As  for  myself  —  well,  I  've  about  given  that  up, 
too.  I  don't  believe  they're  going  to  give  me 
any  chance  to  have  anybody  till  I  'm  real  old  — 
probably  not  till  I  'm  twenty-one  or  two.  And  I 
can't  wait  all  that  time  to  finish  this  book. 

One  week  later. 

Things  are  awfully  funny  here  this  time.  I  won- 
der if  it 's  all  Cousin  Grace  that  makes  it  so.  Any- 
how, she's  just  as  different  as  different  can  be 
from  Aunt  Jane.  And  things  are  different,  every- 
where. 

Why,  I  forget  half  the  time  that  I'm  Mary. 
Honestly,  I  do.  I  try  to  be  Mary.  I  try  to  move 
quietly,  speak  gently,  and  laugh  softly,  just  as 
Mother  told  me  to.  But  before  I  know  it  I'm 
acting  natural  again  —  just  like  Marie,  you 
know. 

And  I  believe  it  is  Cousin  Grace.  She  never 
looks  at  you  in  Aunt  Jane's  I 'm-amazed-at-you 
way.  And  she  laughs  herself  a  lot,  and  sings  and 
plays,  too  —  real  pretty  lively  things;  not  just 
hymn  tunes.  And  the  house  is  different.  There  are 
four  geraniums  in  the  dining-room  window,  and 
the  parlor  is  open  every  day.  The  wax  flowers  are 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  199 

there,  but  the  hair  wreath  and  the  coffin  plate  are 
gone.  Cousin  Grace  does  n't  dress  like  Aunt  Jane, 
either.  She  wears  pretty  white  and  blue  dresses, 
and  her  hair  is  curly  and  fluffy. 

And  so  I  think  all  this  is  why  I  keep  forgetting 
to  be  Mary.  But,  of  course,  I  understand  that 
Father  expects  me  to  be  Mary,  and  so  I  try  to 
remember  —  only  I  can't.  Why,  I  could  n't  even 
show  him  how  much  I  knew  about  the  stars.  I 
tried  to  the  other  night.  I  went  out  to  the  obser- 
vatory where  he  was,  and  asked  him  questions 
about  the  stars.  I  tried  to  seem  interested,  and 
was  going  to  tell  him  how  I'd  been  studying 
about  them,  but  he  just  laughed  kind  of  funny, 
and  said  not  to  bother  my  pretty  head  about  such 
things,  but  to  come  in  and  play  to  him  on  the 
piano. 

So,  of  course,  I  did.  And  he  sat  and  listened  to 
three  whole  pieces.  Now,  was  n't  that  funny? 

Two  weeks  later, 

I  understand  it  all  now  — everything:  why  the 
house  is  different,  and  Father,  and  everything. 
And  it  is  Cousin  Grace,  and  it  is  a  love  story. 

Father  is  in  love  with  her. 

Now  I  guess  I  shall  have  something  for  this 
book! 

It  seems  funny  now  that  I  did  n't  think  of  it 
at  first.  But  I  did  n't  —  not  until  I  heard  Nellie 


200  MARY  MARIE 

and  her  beau  talking  about  it.  Nellie  said  she 
was  n't  the  only  one  in  the  house  that  was  going 
to  get  married.  And  when  he  asked  her  what  she 
meant,  she  said  it  was  Dr.  Anderson  and  Mrs. 
Whitney.  That  anybody  could  see  it  that  was  n't 
as  blind  as  a  bat. 

My,  but  was  n't  I  excited?  I  just  guess  I  was. 
And,  of  course,  I  saw  then  that  I  had  been  blind 
as  a  bat.  But  I  began  to  open  my  eyes  after  that, 
and  watch  —  not  disagreeably,  you  know,  but 
just  glad  and  interested,  and  on  account  of  the 
book. 

And  I  saw: 

That  father  stayed  in  the  house  a  lot  more 
than  he  used  to. 

That  he  talked  more. 

That  he  never  thundered  —  I  mean  spoke 
stern  and  uncompromising  to  Cousin  Grace  the 
way  he  used  to  to  Aunt  Jane. 

That  he  smiled  more. 

That  he  was  n't  so  absent-minded  at  meals 
and  other  times,  but  seemed  to  know  we  were 
there  —  Cousin  Grace  and  I. 

That  he  actually  asked  Cousin  Grace  and  me 
to  play  for  him  several  times. 

That  he  went  with  us  to  the  Sunday-School 
picnic.  (I  never  saw  Father  at  a  picnic  before, 
and  I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  himself  at  one.) 

That  —  oh,  I  don't  know,  but  a  whole  lot  of 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  201 

little  things  that  I  can't  remember;  but  they 
were  all  unmistakable,  very  unmistakable.  And 
I  wondered,  when  I  saw  it  all,  that  I  had  been  as 
blind  as  a  bat  before. 

Of  course,  I  was  glad  —  glad  he 's  going  to 
marry  her,  I  mean.  I  was  glad  for  everybody; 
for  Father  and  Cousin  Grace,  for  they  would  be 
happy,  of  course,  and  he  would  n't  be  lonesome 
any  more.  And  I  was  glad  for  Mother  because  I 
knew  she'd  be  glad  that  he'd  at  last  found  the 
good,  kind  woman  to  make  a  home  for  him. 
And,  of  course,  I  was  glad  for  myself,  for  I'd 
much  rather  have  Cousin  Grace  here  than  Aunt 
Jane,  and  I  knew  she'd  make  the  best  new 
mother  of  any  of  them.  And  last,  but  not  least, 
I'm  glad  for  the  book,  because  now  I've  got  a 
love  story  sure.  That  is,  I'm  pretty  sure.  Of 
course,  it  may  not  be  so;  but  I  think  it  is. 

When  I  wrote  Mother  I  told  her  all  about  it  — 
the  signs  and  symptoms,  I  mean,  and  how  dif- 
ferent and  thawed-out  Father  was;  and  I  asked 
if  she  did  n't  think  it  was  so,  too.  But  she  did  n't 
answer  that  part.  She  did  n't  write  much,  any- 
way. It  was  an  awfully  snippy  letter;  but  she 
said  she  had  a  headache  and  did  n't  feel  at  all 
well.  So  that  was  the  reason,  probably,  why  she 
didn't  say  more  —  about  Father's  love  affair, 
I  mean.  She  only  said  she  was  glad,  she  was  sure, 
if  Father  had  found  an  estimable  woman  to  make 


202  MARY  MARIE 

a  home  for  him,  and  she  hoped  they'd  be  happy. 
Then  she  went  on  talking  about  something  else. 
And  she  did  n't  write  much  more,  anyway,  about 
anything. 

August. 

Well,  of  all  the  topsy-turvy  worlds,  this  is  the 
topsy-turviest,  I  am  sure.  What  do  they  want  me 
to  do,  and  which  do  they  want  me  to  be?  Oh,  I 
wish  I  was  just  a  plain  Susie  or  Bessie,  and  not  a 
cross-current  and  a  contradiction,  with  a  father 
that  wants  me  to  be  one  thing  and  a  mother 
that  wants  me  to  be  another!  It  was  bad  enough 
before,  when  Father  wanted  me  to  be  Mary,  and 
Mother  wanted  me  to  be  Marie.  But  now  — 

Well,  to  begin  at  the  beginning. 

It's  all  over  —  the  love  story,  I  mean,  and  I 
know  now  why  it's  been  so  hard  for  me  to  re- 
member to  be  Mary  and  why  everything  is 
different,  and  all. 

They  don't  want  me  to  be  Mary. 

They  want  me  to  be  Marie. 

And  now  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  If 
Mother 's  going  to  want  me  to  be  Mary,  and 
Father's  going  to  want  me  to  be  Marie,  how 
am  I  going  to  know  what  anybody  wants,  ever? 
Besides,  it  was  getting  to  be  such  a  beautiful 
love  story  —  Father  and  Cousin  Grace.  And 
now  — 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  203 

But  let  me  tell  you  what  happened. 

It  was  last  night.  We  were  on  the  piazza, 
Father,  Cousin  Grace,  and  I.  And  I  was  think- 
ing how  perfectly  lovely  it  was  that  Father  was 
there,  and  that  he  was  getting  to  be  so  nice  and 
folksy,  and  how  I  did  hope  it  would  last,  even 
after  he  'd  married  her,  and  not  have  any  of  that 
incompatibility  stuff  come  into  it.  Well,  just 
then  she  got  up  and  went  into  the  house  for 
something  —  Cousin  Grace,  I  mean  —  and  all  of 
a  sudden  I  determined  to  tell  Father  how  glad 
I  was,  about  him  and  Cousin  Grace;  and  how  I 
hoped  it  would  last  —  having  him  out  there  with 
us,  and  all  that.  And  I  told  him. 

I  don't  remember  what  I  said  exactly.  But  I 
know  I  hurried  on  and  said  it  fast,  so  as  to  get 
in  all  I  could  before  he  interrupted;  for  he  had 
interrupted  right  at  the  first  with  an  exclama- 
tion; and  I  knew  he  was  going  to  say  more 
right  away,  just  as  soon  as  he  got  a  chance.  And 
I  did  n't  want  him  to  get  a  chance  till  I  'd  said 
what  I  wanted  to.  But  I  had  n't  anywhere  near 
said  what  I  wanted  to  when  he  did  stop  me. 
Why,  he  almost  jumped  out  of  his  chair. 

"Mary!"  he  gasped.  "WTiat  in  the  world  are 
you  talking  about?" 

"Why,  Father,  I  was  telling  you,"  I  explained. 
And  I  tried  to  be  so  cool  and  calm  that  it  would 
make  him  calm  and  cool,  too.  (But  it  did  n't 


204  MARY  MARIE 

calm  him  or  cool  him  one  bit.)  "It's  about  when 
you  're  married,  and  —  " 

"Married!"  he  interrupted  again.  (They  never 
let  me  interrupt  like  that!) 

"  To  Cousin  Grace  —  yes.  But,  Father,  you  — 
you  are  going  to  marry  Cousin  Grace,  aren't 
you?"  I  cried  —  and  I  did  'most  cry,  for  I  saw 
by  his  face  that  he  was  not. 

"That  is  not  my  present  intention,"  he  said. 
His  lips  came  together  hard,  and  he  looked  over 
his  shoulder  to  see  if  Cousin  Grace  was  coming 
back. 

"But  you're  going  to  sometime,"  I  begged  him. 

"I  do  not  expect  to."  Again  he  looked  over 
his  shoulder  to  see  if  she  was  coming.  I  looked, 
too,  and  we  both  saw  through  the  window  that 
she  had  gone  into  the  library  and  lighted  up  and 
was  sitting  at  the  table  reading. 

I  fell  back  in  my  chair,  and  I  know  I  looked 
grieved  and  hurt  and  disappointed,  as  I  almost 
sobbed : 

"Oh,  Father,  and  when  I  thought  you  were 
going  to!" 

"There,  there,  child!"  He  spoke,  stern  and 
almost  cross  now.  "This  absurd,  nonsensical 
idea  has  gone  quite  far  enough.  Let  us  think  no 
more  about  it." 

"  It  is  n't  absurd  and  nonsensical ! "  I  cried.  And 
I  could  hardly  say  the  words,  I  was  choking  up 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  205 

so.  "Everybody  said  you  were  going  to,  and  I 
wrote  Mother  so;  and  —  " 

"You  wrote  that  to  your  mother?"  He  did 
jump  from  his  chair  this  time. 

"Yes;  and  she  was  glad." 

"Oh,  she  was!"  He  sat  down  sort  of  limp-like 
and  queer. 

"Yes.  She  said  she  was  glad  you'd  found  an 
estimable  woman  to  make  a  home  for  you." 

"Oh,  she  did."  He  said  this,  too,  in  that  queer, 
funny,  quiet  kind  of  way. 

"Yes."  I  spoke,  decided  and  firm.  I'd  begun 
to  think,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  maybe  he  did  n't 
appreciate  Mother  as  much  as  she  did  him;  and 
I  determined  right  then  and  there  to  make  him, 
if  I  could.  When  I  remembered  all  the  lovely 
things  she  'd  said  about  him  — 

"Father,"  I  began;  and  I  spoke  this  time,  even 
more  decided  and  firm.  "I  don't  believe  you 
appreciate  Mother." 

"Eh?  What?" 

He  made  me  jump  this  time,  he  turned  around 
with  such  a  jerk,  and  spoke  so  sharply.  But  in 
spite  of  the  jump  I  still  held  on  to  my  subject, 
firm  and  decided. 

"I  say  I  don't  believe  you  appreciate  my 
mother.  You  acted  right  now  as  if  you  did  n't 
believe  she  meant  it  when  I  told  you  she  was 
glad  you  had  found  an  estimable  woman  to  make 


206  MARY  MARIE 

a  home  for  you.  But  she  did  mean  it.  I  know, 
because  she  said  it  before,  once,  last  year,  that 
she  hoped  you  would  find  one." 

"Oh,  she  did."  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  again, 
sort  of  limp-like.  But  I  could  n't  tell  yet,  from 
his  face,  whether  I'd  convinced  him  or  not.  So 
I  went  on. 

"Yes,  and  that  isn't  all.  There's  another 
reason  why  I  know  Mother  always  has  —  has 
your  best  interest  at  heart.  She  —  she  tried  to 
make  me  over  into  Mary  before  I  came,  so  as  to 
please  you." 

"  She  did  what  ?  "  Once  more  he  made  me  jump, 
he  turned  so  suddenly,  and  spoke  with  such  a 
short,  sharp  snap. 

But  in  spite  of  the  jump  I  went  right  on,  just 
as  I  had  before,  firm  and  decided.  I  told  him 
everything  —  all  about  the  cooking  lessons,  and 
the  astronomy  book  we  read  an  hour  every  day, 
and  the  pink  silk  dress  I  could  n't  have,  and 
even  about  the  box  of  chocolates  and  the  self- 
discipline.  And  how  she  said  if  she'd  had  self- 
discipline  when  she  was  a  girl,  her  life  would 
have  been  very  different.  And  I  told  him  about 
how  she  began  to  hush  me  up  from  laughing  too 
loud,  or  making  any  kind  of  noise,  because  I  was 
soon  to  be  Mary,  and  she  wanted  me  to  get  used 
to  it,  so  I  would  n't  trouble  him  when  I  got  here. 

I  talked  very  fast  and  hurriedly.  I  was  afraid 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  207 

he  'd  interrrupt,  and  I  wanted  to  get  in  all  I  could 
before  he  did.  But  he  did  n't  interrupt  at  all. 
I  could  n't  see  how  he  was  taking  it,  though  — 
what  I  said  —  for  after  the  very  first  he  sat  back 
in  his  chair  and  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand; 
and  he  sat  like  that  all  the  time  I  was  talking. 
He  did  not  even  stir  until  I  said  how  at  the  last 
she  bought  me  the  homely  shoes  and  the  plain 
dark  suit  so  I  could  go  as  Mary,  and  be  Mary 
when  Aunt  Jane  first  saw  me  get  off  the  train. 

When  I  said  that,  he  dropped  his  hand  and 
turned  around  and  stared  at  me.  And  there  was 
such  a  funny  look  in  his  eyes. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  look  the  same!"  he 
cried ; "  not  so  white  and  airy  and  —  and  —  I  can't 
explain  it,  but  you  looked  different.  And  yet, 
I  did  n't  think  it  could  be  so,  for  I  knew  you 
looked  just  as  you  did  when  you  came,  and  that 
no  one  had  asked  you  to  —  to  put  on  Mary's 
things  this  year." 

He  sort  of  smiled  when  he  said  that;  then  he 
got  up  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  piazza, 
muttering:  "So  you  came  as  Mary,  you  came  as 
Mary."  Then,  after  a  minute,  he  gave  a  funny 
little  laugh  and  sat  down. 

Mrs.  Small  came  up  the  front  walk  then  to  see 
Cousin  Grace,  and  Father  told  her  to  go  right 
into  the  library  where  Cousin  Grace  was.  So  we 
were  left  alone  again,  after  a  minute. 


208  MARY  MARIE 

It  was  'most  dark  on  the  piazza,  but  I  could 
see  Father's  face  in  the  light  from  the  window; 
and  it  looked  —  well,  I  'd  never  seen  it  look  like 
that  before.  It  was  as  if  something  that  had  been 
on  it  for  years  had  dropped  off  and  left  it  clear 
where  before  it  had  been  blurred  and  indistinct. 
No,  that  does  n't  exactly  describe  it  either.  I  can't 
describe  it.  But  I  '11  go  on  and  say  what  he  said. 

After  Mrs.  Small  had  gone  into  the  house,  and 
he  saw  that  she  was  sitting  down  with  Cousin 
Grace  in  the  library,  he  turned  to  me  and  said: 

"And  so  you  came  as  Mary?" 

I  said  yes,  I  did. 

"Well,  I  —  I  got  ready  for  Marie." 

But  then  I  did  n't  quite  understand,  not  even 
when  I  looked  at  him,  and  saw  the  old  under- 
standing twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"You  mean  —  you  thought  I  was  coming  as 
Marie,  of  course,"  I  said  then. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded. 

"But  I  came  as  Mary." 

"I  see  now  that  you  did."  He  drew  in  his 
breath  with  a  queer  little  catch  to  it;  then  he  got 
up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza  again. 
(Why  do  old  folks  always  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  like  that  when  they  're  thinking  hard  about 
something?  Father  always  does;  and  Mother 
does  lots  of  times,  too.)  But  it  was  n't  but  a  min- 
ute this  time  before  Father  came  and  sat  down. 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  209 

"Well,  Mary,"  he  began;  and  his  voice  sounded 
odd,  with  a  little  shake  in  it.  "You've  told  me 
your  story,  so  I  suppose  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
mine  —  now.  You  see,  I  not  only  got  ready  for 
Marie,  but  I  had  planned  to  keep  her  Marie,  and 
not  let  her  be  Mary  —  at  all." 

And  then  he  told  me.  He  told  me  how  he'd 
never  forgotten  that  day  in  the  parlor  when  I 
cried  (and  made  a  wet  spot  on  the  arm  of  the 
sofa  —  I  never  forgot  that!),  and  he  saw  then 
how  hard  it  was  for  me  to  live  here,  with  him  so 
absorbed  in  his  work  and  Aunt  Jane  so  stern  in 
her  black  dress.  And  he  said  I  put  it  very  vividly 
when  I  talked  about  being  Marie  in  Boston,  and 
Mary  here,  and  he  saw  just  how  it  was.  And  so 
he  thought  and  thought  about  it  all  winter,  and 
wondered  what  he  could  do.  And  after  a  time  it 
came  to  him  —  he'd  let  me  be  Marie  here;  that 
is,  he'd  try  to  make  it  so  I  could  be  Marie.  And 
he  was  just  wondering  how  he  was  going  to  get 
Aunt  Jane  to  help  him  when  she  was  sent  for  and 
asked  to  go  to  an  old  friend  who  was  sick.  And  he 
told  her  to  go,  by  all  means  to  go.  Then  he  got 
Cousin  Grace  to  come  here.  He  said  he  knew 
Cousin  Grace,  and  he  was  very  sure  she  would 
know  how  to  help  him  to  let  me  stay  Marie.  So 
he  talked  it  over  with  her  —  how  they  would  let 
me  laugh,  and  sing  and  play  the  piano  all  I 
wanted  to,  and  wear  the  clothes  I  brought  with 


210  MARY  MARIE 

me,  and  be  just  as  near  as  I  could  be  the  way  I  was 
in  Boston. 

"And  to  think,  after  all  my  preparation  for 
Marie,  you  should  be  Mary  already,  when  you 
came,"  he  finished. 

"Yes.  Was  n't  it  funny?"  I  laughed.  "All  the 
time  you  were  getting  ready  for  Marie,  Mother 
was  getting  me  ready  to  be  Mary.  It  was  funny! " 
And  it  did  seem  funny  to  me  then. 

But  Father  was  not  laughing.  He  had  sat  back 
in  his  chair,  and  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hand  again,  as  if  he  was  thinking  and  thinking, 
just  as  hard  as  he  could.  And  I  suppose  it  did 
seem  queer  to  him,  that  he  should  be  trying  to 
make  me  Marie,  and  all  the  while  Mother  was 
trying  to  make  me  Mary.  And  it  seemed  so  to  me, 
as  I  began  to  think  it  over.  It  was  n't  funny  at 
all,  any  longer. 

"And  so  your  mother — did  that,"  Father  mut- 
tered; and  there  was  the  queer  little  catch  in  his 
breath  again. 

He  did  n't  say  any  more,  not  a  single  word. 
And  after  a  minute  he  got  up  and  went  into  the 
house.  But  he  did  n't  go  into  the  library  where 
Mrs.  Small  and  Cousin  Grace  were  talking.  He 
went  straight  upstairs  to  his  own  room  and  shut 
the  door.  I  heard  it.  And  he  was  still  there  when 
I  went  up  to  bed  afterwards. 

Well,  I  guess  he  does  n't  feel  any  worse  than  I 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  211 

do.  I  thought  at  first  it  was  funny,  a  good  joke 
—  his  trying  to  have  me  Marie  while  Mother 
was  making  me  over  into  Mary.  But  I  see  now 
that  it  is  n't.  It's  awful.  Why,  how  am  I  going  to 
know  at  all  who  to  be  —  now?  Before,  I  used  to 
know  just  when  to  be  Mary,  and  when  to  be 
Marie  —  Mary  with  Father,  Marie  with  Mother. 
Now  I  don't  know  at  all.  Why,  they  can't  even 
seem  to  agree  on  that !  I  suppose  it 's  just  some 
more  of  that  incompatibility  business  showing 
up  even  when  they  are  apart.  And  poor  me  — 
I  have  to  suffer  for  it.  I  'm  beginning  to  see  that 
the  child  does  suffer  —  I  mean  the  child  of  un- 
likes. 

Now,  look  at  me  right  now  —  about  my  clothes, 
for  instance.  (Of  course  clothes  are  a  little  thing, 
you  may  think;  but  I  don't  think  anything 's  lit- 
tle that 's  always  with  you  like  clothes  are !)  Well, 
here  all  summer,  and  even  before  I  came,  I've 
been  wearing  stuffy  gingham  and  clumpy  shoes 
to  please  Father.  And  Father  is  n't  pleased  at 
all.  He  wanted  me  to  wear  the  Marie  things. 

And  there  you  are. 

How  do  you  suppose  Mother's  going  to  feel 
when  I  tell  her  that  after  all  her  pains  Father 
did  n't  like  it  at  all.  He  wanted  me  to  be  Marie. 
It 's  a  shame,  after  all  the  pains  she  took.  But  I 
won't  write  it  to  her,  anyway.  Maybe  I  won't 
have  to  tell  her,  unless  she  asks  me. 


212  MARY  MARIE 

But  I  know  it.  And,  pray,  what  am  I  to  do?  Of 
course,  I  can  act  like  Marie  here  all  right,  if  that 
is  what  folks  want.  (I  guess  I  have  been  doing  it 
a  good  deal  of  the  time,  anyway,  for  I  kept  for- 
getting that  I  was  Mary.)  But  I  can't  wear  Marie, 
for  I  have  n't  a  single  Marie  thing  here.  They  're 
all  Mary.  That's  all  I  brought. 

Oh,  dear  suz  me !  Why  could  n't  Father  and 
Mother  have  been  just  the  common  live-happy- 
ever-after  kind,  or  else  found  out  before  they  mar- 
ried that  they  were  unlikes? 

September, 

Well,  vacation  is  over,  and  I  go  back  to  Bos- 
ton to-morrow.  It 's  been  very  nice  and  I  've  had 
a  good  time,  in  spite  of  being  so  mixed  up  as  to 
whether  I  was  Mary  or  Marie.  It  was  n't  so  bad 
as  I  was  afraid  it  would  be.  Very  soon  after 
Father  and  I  had  that  talk  on  the  piazza,  Cousin 
Grace  took  me  down  to  the  store  and  bought  me 
two  new  white  dresses,  and  the  dearest  little  pair 
of  shoes  I  ever  saw.  She  said  Father  wanted  me  to 
have  them. 

And  that 's  all  —  every  single  word  that 's  been 
said  about  that  Mary-and-Marie  business.  And 
even  that  did  n't  really  say  anything  —  not  by 
name.  And  Cousin  Grace  never  mentioned  it 
again.  And  Father  never  mentioned  it  at  all.  Not 
a  word. 


WHEN  I  AM  NEITHER  ONE  213 

But  he 's  been  queer.  He 's  been  awfully  queer. 
Some  days  he 's  been  just  as  he  was  when  I  first 
came  this  time  —  real  talky  and  folksy,  and  as  if 
he  liked  to  be  with  us.  Then  for  whole  days  at  a 
time  he  'd  be  more  as  he  used  to  —  stern,  and 
stirring  his  coffee  when  there  is  n't  any  coffee 
there;  and  staying  all  the  evening  and  half  the 
night  out  in  his  observatory. 

Some  days  he 's  talked  a  lot  with  me  —  asked 
me  questions  just  as  he  used  to,  all  about  what  I 
did  in  Boston,  and  Mother,  and  the  people  that 
came  there  to  see  her,  and  everything.  And  he 
spoke  of  the  violinist  again,  and,  of  course,  this 
time  I  told  him  all  about  him,  and  that  he  did  n't 
come  any  more,  nor  Mr.  Easterbrook,  either;  and 
Father  was  so  interested!  Why,  it  seemed  some- 
times as  if  he  just  could  n't  hear  enough  about 
things.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  at  times,  he  'd  get 
right  up  in  the  middle  of  something  I  was  saying 
and  act  as  if  he  was  just  waiting  for  me  to  finish 
my  sentence  so  he  could  go.  And  he  did  go,  just 
as  soon  as  I  had  finished  my  sentence.  And  after 
that,  maybe,  he  wouldn't  hardly  speak  to  me 
again  for  a  whole  day. 

And  so  that's  why  I  say  he's  been  so  queer 
since  that  night  on  the  piazza.  But  most  of  the 
time  he's  been  lovely,  perfectly  lovely.  And  so 
has  Cousin  Grace.  And  I  've  had  a  beautiful  time. 

But  I  do  wish  they  would  marry  —  Father  and 


214  MARY  MARIE 

Cousin  Grace,  I  mean.  And  I  'm  not  talking  now 
entirely  for  the  sake  of  the  book.  It's  for  their 
sakes  —  especially  for  Father's  sake.  I  've  been 
thinking  what  Mother  used  to  say  about  him, 
when  she  was  talking  about  my  being  Mary  — 
how  he  was  lonely,  and  needed  a  good,  kind 
woman  to  make  a  home  for  him.  And  while  I  've 
been  thinking  of  it,  I've  been  watching  him;  and 
I  think  he  does  need  a  good,  kind  woman  to  make 
a  home  for  him.  I'd  be  willing  to  have  a  new 
mother  for  his  sake ! 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  he 's  got  Cousin  Grace,  but  he 
may  not  have  her  always.  Maybe  she'll  be  sent 
for  same  as  Aunt  Jane  was.  Then  what's  he  going 
to  do,  I  should  like  to  know? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Which  is  the  Real  Love  Story 

Boston.  Four  days  later. 

Well,  here  I  am  again  in  Boston.  Mother  and 
the  rest  met  me  at  the  station,  and  everybody 
seemed  glad  to  see  me,  just  as  they  did  before. 
And  I  was  glad  to  see  them.  But  I  did  n't  feel  any- 
where near  so  excited,  and  sort  of  crazy,  as  I  did 
last  year.  I  tried  to,  but  I  could  n't.  I  don't  know 
why.  Maybe  it  was  because  I'd  been  Marie  all 
summer,  anyway,  so  I  was  n't  so  crazy  to  be 
Marie  now,  not  needing  any  rest  from  being 
Mary.  Maybe  it  was  'cause  I  sort  of  hated  to 
leave  Father. 

And  I  did  hate  to  leave  him,  especially  when  I 
found  he  hated  to  have  me  leave  him.  And  he  did. 
He  told  me  so  at  the  junction.  You  see,  our  train 
was  late,  and  we  had  to  wait  for  it;  and  there  was 
where  he  told  me. 

He  had  come  all  the  way  down  there  with  me, 
just  as  he  had  before.  But  he  had  n't  acted  the 
same  at  all.  He  did  n't  fidget  this  time,  nor  walk 
over  to  look  at  maps  and  time-tables,  nor  flip  out 
his  watch  every  other  minute  with  such  a  bored 
air  that  everybody  knew  he  was  seeing  me  off 
just  as  a  duty.  And  he  did  n't  ask  if  I  was  w^armly 


216  MARY  MARIE 

clad,  and  had  I  left  anything,  either.  He  just  sat 
and  talked  to  me,  and  he  asked  me  had  I  been  a 
little  happier  there  with  him  this  year  than  last; 
and  he  said  he  hoped  I  had. 

And  I  told  him,  of  course,  I  had;  that  it  had 
been  perfectly  beautiful  there,  even  if  there  had 
been  such  a  mix-up  of  him  getting  ready  for 
Marie,  and  Mother  sending  Mary.  And  he 
laughed  and  looked  queer  —  sort  of  half  glad  and 
half  sorry;  and  said  he  should  n't  worry  about 
that.  Then  the  train  came,  and  we  got  on  and 
rode  down  to  the  junction.  And  there,  while  we 
were  waiting  for  the  other  train,  he  told  me  how 
sorry  he  was  to  have  me  go. 

He  said  I  would  never  know  how  he  missed  me 
after  I  went  last  year.  He  said  you  never  knew 
how  you  missed  things  —  and  people  —  till  they 
were  gone.  And  I  wondered  if,  by  the  way  he  said 
it,  he  was  n't  thinking  of  Mother  more  than  he  was 
of  me,  and  of  her  going  long  ago.  And  he  looked  so 
sort  of  sad  and  sorry  and  noble  and  handsome, 
sitting  there  beside  me,  that  suddenly  I  'most 
wanted  to  cry.  And  I  told  him  I  did  love  him,  I 
loved  him  dearly,  and  I  had  loved  to  be  with 
him  this  summer,  and  that  I  'd  stay  his  whole  six 
months  with  him  next  year  if  he  wanted  me  to. 

He  shook  his  head  at  that;  but  he  did  look 
happy  and  pleased,  and  said  I'd  never  know 
how  glad  he  was  that  I  'd  said  that,  and  that  he 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  217 

should  prize  it  very  highly  —  the  love  of  his  little 
daughter.  He  said  you  never  knew  how  to  prize 
love,  either,  till  you'd  lost  it;  and  he  said  he'd 
learned  his  lesson,  and  learned  it  well.  I  knew 
then,  of  course,  that  he  was  thinking  of  Mother 
and  the  long  ago.  And  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him. 

"  But  I  '11  stay  —  I  '11  stay  the  whole  six  months 
next  year!"  I  cried  again. 

But  again  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no,  my  dear;  I  thank  you,  and  I'd  love  to 
have  you;  but  it  is  much  better  for  you  that  you 
stay  in  Boston  through  the  school  year,  and  I 
want  you  to  do  it.  It  '11  just  make  the  three  months 
I  do  have  you  all  the  dearer,  because  of  the  long 
nine  months  that  I  do  not,"  he  went  on  very 
cheerfully  and  briskly;  "and  don't  look  so  solemn 
and  long-faced.  You  're  not  to  blame  —  for  this 
wretched  situation." 

The  train  came  then,  and  he  put  me  on  board, 
and  he  kissed  me  again  —  but  I  was  expecting  it 
this  time,  of  course.  Then  I  whizzed  off,  and  he 
was  left  standing  all  alone  on  the  platform.  And  I 
felt  so  sorry  for  him;  and  all  the  way  down  to  Bos- 
ton I  kept  thinking  of  him  —  what  he  said,  and 
how  he  looked,  and  how  fine  and  splendid  and 
any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him  he  was  as  he 
stood  on  the  platform  waving  good-bye. 

And  so  I  guess  I  was  still  thinking  of  him  and 
being  sorry  for  him  when  I  got  to  Boston.  That's 


218  MARY  MARIE 

why  I  could  n't  be  so  crazy  and  hilariously  glad 
when  the  folks  met  me,  I  suspect.  Some  way,  all 
of  a  sudden,  I  found  myself  wishing  he  could  be 
there,  too. 

Of  course,  I  knew  that  that  was  bad  and  wicked 
and  unkind  to  Mother,  and  she  'd  feel  so  grieved 
not  to  have  me  satisfied  with  her.  And  I  would  n't 
have  told  her  of  it  for  the  world.  So  I  tried  just  as 
hard  as  I  could  to  forget  him  —  on  account  of 
Mother,  so  as  to  be  loyal  to  her.  And  I  did  'most 
forget  him  by  the  time  IM  got  home.  But  it  all 
came  back  again  a  little  later  when  we  were  un- 
packing my  trunk. 

You  see,  Mother  found  the  two  new  white 
dresses,  and  the  dear  little  shoes.  I  knew  then,  of 
course,  that  she  'd  have  to  know  all  —  I  mean, 
how  she  had  n't  pleased  Father,  even  after  all  her 
pains  trying  to  have  me  go  as  Mary. 

"Why,  Marie,  what  in  the  world  is  this?"  she 
demanded,  holding  up  one  of  the  new  dresses. 

I  could  have  cried. 

I  suppose  she  saw  by  my  face  how  awfully  I 
felt  'cause  she  'd  found  it.  And,  of  course,  she  saw 
something  was  the  matter;  and  she  thought  it 
was  — 

Well,  the  first  thing  I  knew  she  was  looking 
at  me  in  her  very  sternest,  sorriest  way,  and 
saying: 

"Oh,  Marie,  how  could  you?  I'm  ashamed  of 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  219 

you !  Could  n't  you  wear  the  Mary  dresses  one 
little  three  months  to  please  your  father?" 

I  did  cry,  then.  After  all  I'd  been  through,  to 
have  her  accuse  me  of  getting  those  dresses !  Well, 
I  just  could  n't  stand  it.  And  I  told  her  so  as  well 
as  I  could,  only  I  was  crying  so  by  now  that  I 
could  hardly  speak.  I  told  her  how  it  was  hard 
enough  to  be  Mary  part  of  the  time,  and  Marie 
part  of  the  time,  when  I  knew  what  they  wanted 
me  to  be.  But  when  she  tried  to  have  me  Mary 
while  he  wanted  me  Marie,  and  he  tried  to  have 
me  Marie  while  she  wanted  me  Mary  —  I  did 
not  know  what  they  wanted;  and  I  wished  I  had 
never  been  born  unless  I  could  have  been  born 
a  plain  Susie  or  Bessie,  or  Annabelle,  and  not  a 
Mary  Marie  that  was  all  mixed  up  till  I  did  n't 
know  what  I  was. 

And  then  I  cried  some  more. 

Mother  dropped  the  dress  then,  and  took  me  in 
her  arms  over  on  the  couch,  and  she  said,  "There, 
there,"  and  that  I  was  tired  and  nervous,  and  all 
wrought  up,  and  to  cry  all  I  wanted  to.  And  by 
and  by,  when  I  was  calmer  I  could  tell  Mother  all 
about  it. 

And  I  did. 

I  told  her  how  hard  I  tried  to  be  Mary  all  the 
way  up  to  Andersonville  and  after  I  got  there; 
and  how  then  I  found  out,  all  of  a  sudden  one 
day,  that  father  had  got  ready  for  Marie,  and  he 


220  MARY  MARIE 

did  n't  want  me  to  be  Mary,  and  that  was  why  he 
had  got  Cousin  Grace  and  the  automobile  and 
the  geraniums  in  the  window,  and,  oh,  everything 
that  made  it  nice  and  comfy  and  homey.  And 
then  is  when  they  bought  me  the  new  white 
dresses  and  the  little  white  shoes.  And  I  told 
Mother,  of  course,  it  was  lovely  to  be  Marie,  and 
I  liked  it,  only  I  knew  she  would  feel  bad  to  think, 
after  all  her  pains  to  make  me  Mary,  Father 
did  n't  want  me  Mary  at  all. 

"I  don't  think  you  need  to  worry  —  about 
that,"  stammered  Mother.  And  when  I  looked  at 
her,  her  face  was  all  flushed,  and  sort  of  queer, 
but  not  a  bit  angry.  And  she  went  on  in  the  same 
odd  little  shaky  voice:  "But,  tell  me,  why — ■ 
why  did  —  your  father  want  you  to  be  Marie  and 
not  Mary?" 

And  then  I  told  her  how  he  said  he'd  remem- 
bered what  I  'd  said  to  him  in  the  parlor  that  day 
—  how  tired  I  got  being  Mary,  and  how  I  'd  put 
on  Marie's  things  just  to  get  a  little  vacation 
from  her;  and  he  said  he'd  never  forgotten.  And 
so  when  it  came  near  time  for  me  to  come  again, 
he  determined  to  fix  it  so  I  would  n't  have  to  be 
Mary  at  all.  And  so  that  was  why.  And  I  told 
Mother  it  was  all  right,  and  of  course  I  liked  it; 
only  it  did  mix  me  up  awfully,  not  knowing  which 
wanted  me  to  be  Mary  now,  and  which  Marie, 
when  they  were  both  telling  me  different  from 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  221 

what  they  ever  had  before.  And  that  it  was  hard, 
when  you  were  trying  just  the  best  you  knew  how. 

And  I  began  to  cry  again. 

And  she  said  there,  there,  once  more,  and  pat- 
ted me  on  my  shoulder,  and  told  me  I  need  n't 
worry  any  more.  And  that  she  understood  it,  if  I 
did  n't.  In  fact,  she  was  beginning  to  understand 
a  lot  of  things  that  she'd  never  understood  be- 
fore. And  she  said  it  was  very,  very  dear  of  Father 
to  do  what  he  did,  and  that  I  need  n't  worry 
about  her  being  displeased  at  it.  That  she  was 
pleased,  and  that  she  believed  he  meant  her  to  be. 
And  she  said  I  need  n't  think  any  more  whether 
to  be  Mary  or  Marie;  but  to  be  just  a  good,  loving 
little  daughter  to  both  of  them;  and  that  was  all 
she  asked,  and  she  was  very  sure  it  was  all  Father 
would  ask,  too. 

I  told  her  then  how  I  thought  he  did  care  a  little 
about  having  me  there,  and  that  I  knew  he  was 
going  to  miss  me.  And  I  told  her  why  —  what 
he'd  said  that  morning  in  the  junction  —  about 
appreciating  love,  and  not  missing  things  or  peo- 
ple until  you  did  n't  have  them;  and  how  he'd 
learned  his  lesson,  and  all  that. 

And  Mother  grew  all  flushed  and  rosy  again, 
but  she  was  pleased.  I  knew  she  was.  And  she 
said  some  beautiful  things  about  making  other 
people  happy,  instead  of  looking  to  ourselves  all 
the  time,  just  as  she  had  talked  once,  before  I 


222  MARY  MARIE 

went  away.  And  I  felt  again  that  hushed,  stained- 
window,  soft-music,  everybody-kneeling  kind  of 
a  way;  and  I  was  so  happy!  And  it  lasted  all  the 
rest  of  that  evening  till  I  went  to  sleep. 

And  for  the  first  time  a  beautiful  idea  came  to 
me,  when  I  thought  how  Mother  was  trying  to 
please  Father,  and  he  was  trying  to  please  her. 
Would  n't  it  be  perfectly  lovely  and  wonderful  if 
Father  and  Mother  should  fall  in  love  with  each 
other  all  over  again,  and  get  married?  I  guess 
then  this  would  be  a  love  story  all  right,  all  right! 

October. 

Oh,  how  I  wish  that  stained-window,  every- 
body-kneeling feeling  would  last.  But  it  never 
does.  Just  the  next  morning,  when  I  woke  up,  it 
rained.  And  I  did  n't  feel  pleased  a  bit.  Still  I  re- 
membered what  had  happened  the  night  before, 
and  a  real  glow  came  over  me  at  the  beautiful  idea 
I  had  gone  to  sleep  with. 

I  wanted  to  tell  Mother,  and  ask  her  if  it 
could  n't  be,  and  would  n't  she  let  it  be,  if  Father 
would.  So,  without  waiting  to  dress  me,  I  hur- 
ried across  the  hall  to  her  room  and  told  her  all 
about  it  —  my  idea,  and  everything. 

But  she  said,  "Nonsense,"  and,  "Hush,  hush," 
when  I  asked  her  if  she  and  Father  could  n't  fall 
in  love  all  over  again  and  get  married.  And  she 
said  not  to  get  silly  notions  into  my  head.  And 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  223 

she  was  n't  a  bit  flushed  and  teary,  as  she  had 
been  the  night  before,  and  she  did  n't  talk  at  all 
as  she  had  then,  either.  And  it's  been  that  way 
ever  since.  Things  have  gone  along  in  just  the 
usual  humdrum  way,  and  she's  never  been  the 
same  as  she  was  that  night  I  came. 

Something  —  a  little  something  —  did  happen 
yesterday,  though.  There's  going  to  be  another 
big  astronomy  meeting  here  in  Boston  this  month, 
just  as  there  was  when  Father  found  Mother 
years  ago;  and  Grandfather  brought  home  word 
that  Father  was  going  to  be  one  of  the  chief 
speakers.  And  he  told  Mother  he  supposed  she  'd 
go  and  hear  him. 

I  could  n't  make  out  whether  he  was  joking  or 
not.  (I  never  can  tell  when  Grandfather 's  joking.) 
But  Aunt  Hattie  took  it  right  up  in  earnest,  and 
said,  "Pooh,  pooh,"  she  guessed  not.  She  could 
see  Madge  going  down  to  that  hall  to  hear  Dr. 
Anderson  speak! 

And  then  a  funny  thing  happened.  I  looked  at 
Mother,  and  I  saw  her  head  come  up  with  a  queer 
little  jerk. 

"Well,  yes,  I  am  thinking  of  going,"  she  said, 
just  as  calm  and  cool  as  could  be.  "When  does  he 
speak,  Father?" 

And  when  Aunt  Hattie  pooh-poohed  some 
more,  and  asked  how  could  she  do  such  a  thing, 
Mother  answered: 


224  MARY  MARIE 

"Because  Charles  Anderson  is  the  father  of  my 
little  girl,  and  I  think  she  should  hear  him  speak. 
Therefore,  Hattie,  I  intend  to  take  her." 

And  then  she  asked  Grandfather  again  when 
Father  was  going  to  speak. 

I  'm  so  excited !  Only  think  of  seeing  my  father 
up  on  a  big  platform  with  a  lot  of  big  men,  and 
hearing  him  speak !  And  he  '11  be  the  very  smartest 
and  handsomest  one  there,  too.  You  see  if  he 
isn't! 

Two  weeks  and  one  day  later. 

Oh,  I  've  got  a  lot  to  write  this  time  —  I  mean, 
a  lot  has  happened.  Still,  I  don't  know  as  it's 
going  to  take  so  very  long  to  tell  it.  Besides,  I  'm 
almost  too  excited  to  write,  anyway.  But  I'm 
going  to  do  the  best  I  can  to  tell  it,  just  as  it 
happened. 

Father 's  here  —  right  here  in  Boston.  I  don't 
know  when  he  came.  But  the  first  day  of  the  meet- 
ing was  day  before  yesterday,  and  he  was  here 
then.  The  paper  said  he  was,  and  his  picture  was 
there,  too.  There  were  a  lot  of  pictures,  but  his 
was  away  ahead  of  the  others.  It  was  the  very 
best  one  on  the  page.  (I  told  you  it  would  be  that 
way.) 

Mother  saw  it  first.  That  is,  I  think  she  did. 
She  had  the  paper  in  her  hand,  looking  at  it, 
when  I  came  into  the  room;  but  as  soon  as  she 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  225 

saw  me  she  laid  it  right  down  quick  on  the  table. 
If  she  had  n't  been  quite  so  quick  about  it,  and 
if  she  had  n't  looked  quite  so  queer  when  she  did 
it,  I  would  n't  have  thought  anything  at  all.  But 
when  I  went  over  to  the  table  after  she  had  gone, 
and  saw  the  paper  with  Father's  picture  right  on 
the  first  page  —  and  the  biggest  picture  there  — 
I  knew  then,  of  course,  what  she  'd  been  looking 
at. 

I  looked  at  it  then,  and  I  read  what  it  said,  too. 
It  was  lovely.  Why,  I  had  n't  any  idea  Father 
was  so  big.  I  was  prouder  than  ever  of  him.  It 
told  all  about  the  stars  and  comets  he'd  discov- 
ered, and  the  books  he'd  written  on  astronomy, 
and  how  he  was  president  of  the  college  at  Ander- 
sonville,  and  that  he  was  going  to  give  an  address 
the  next  day.  And  I  read  it  all  —  every  word. 
And  I  made  up  my  mind  right  there  and  then 
that  I  'd  cut  out  that  piece  and  save  it. 

But  that  night,  when  I  went  to  the  library  cup- 
board to  get  the  paper,  I  could  n't  do  it,  after  all. 
Oh,  the  paper  was  there,  but  that  page  was  gone. 
There  wasn't  a  bit  of  it  left.  Somebody  had 
taken  it  right  out.  I  never  thought  then  of  Mother. 
But  I  believe  now  that  it  was  Mother,  for  — 

But  I  must  n't  tell  you  that  part  now.  Stories 
are  just  like  meals.  You  have  to  eat  them  —  I 
mean  tell  them  —  in  regular  order,  and  not  put 
the  ice-cream  in  where  the  soup  ought  to  be.  So 


226  MARY  MARIE 

I'm  not  going  to  tell  yet  why  I  suspect  it  was 
Mother  that  cut  out  that  page  of  the  paper  with 
Father's  picture  in  it. 

Well,  the  next  morning  was  Father's  lecture, 
and  I  went  with  Mother.  Of  course  Grandfather 
was  there,  too,  but  he  was  with  the  other  astrono- 
mers, I  guess.  Anyhow,  he  did  n't  sit  with  us. 
And  Aunt  Hattie  did  n't  go  at  all.  So  Mother  and 
I  were  alone. 

We  sat  back  —  a  long  ways  back.  I  wanted  to 
go  up  front,  real  far  front  —  the  front  seat,  if  I 
could  get  it;  and  I  told  Mother  so.  But  she  said, 
"Mercy,  no! "  and  shuddered,  and  went  back  two 
more  rows  from  where  she  was,  and  got  behind  a 
big  post. 

I  guess  she  was  afraid  Father  would  see  us,  but 
that's  what  /  wanted.  I  wanted  him  to  see  us.  I 
wanted  him  to  be  right  in  the  middle  of  his  lec- 
ture and  look  down  and  see  right  there  before  him 
his  little  girl  Mary,  and  she  that  had  been  the 
wife  of  his  bosom.  Now  that  would  have  been  what 
I  called  thrilling,  real  thrilling,  especially  if  he 
jumped  or  grew  red,  or  white,  or  stammered,  or 
stopped  short,  or  anything  to  show  that  he'd 
seen  us  —  and  cared. 

I  'd  have  loved  that. 

But  we  sat  back  where  Mother  wanted  to,  be- 
hind the  post.  And,  of  course,  Father  never  saw  us 
at  all. 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  227 

It  was  a  lovely  lecture.  Oh,  of  course,  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  I  understood  it.  I  did  n't.  But 
his  voice  was  fine,  and  he  looked  just  too  grand 
for  anything,  with  the  light  on  his  noble  brow, 
and  he  used  the  loveliest  big  words  that  I  ever 
heard.  And  folks  clapped,  and  looked  at  each 
other,  and  nodded,  and  once  or  twice  they 
laughed.  And  when  he  was  all  through  they 
clapped  again,  harder  than  ever.  And  I  was  so 
proud  of  him  I  wanted  to  stand  right  up  and 
holler,  "He's  my  father!  He's  my  father!"  just 
as  loud  as  I  could.  But,  of  course,  I  did  n't.  I 
just  clapped  like  the  rest;  only  I  wished  my 
hands  were  big  like  the  man's  next  to  me,  so  I 
could  have  made  more  noise. 

Another  man  spoke  then,  a  little  (not  near  so 
good  as  Father),  and  then  it  was  all  over,  and 
everybody  got  up  to  go;  and  I  saw  that  a  lot  of 
folks  were  crowding  down  the  aisle,  and  I  looked 
and  there  was  Father  right  in  front  of  the  plat- 
form shaking  hands  with  folks. 

I  looked  at  Mother  then.  Her  face  was  all 
pinky-white,  and  her  eyes  were  shining.  I  guess 
she  thought  I  spoke,  for  all  of  a  sudden  she 
shook  her  head  and  said : 

"No,  no,  I  could  n't,  I  could  n't!  But  you  may, 
dear.  Run  along  and  speak  to  him;  but  don't 
stay.  Remember,  Mother  is  waiting,  and  come 
right  back." 


228  MARY  MARIE 

I  knew  then  that  it  must  have  been  just  my 
eyes  that  spoke,  for  I  did  want  to  go  down  there 
and  speak  to  Father.  Oh,  I  did  want  to  go!  And 
I  went  then,  of  course. 

He  did  n't  see  me  at  first.  There  was  a  long 
line  of  us,  and  a  big  fat  man  was  doing  a  lot  of 
talking  to  him  so  we  could  n't  move  at  all,  for  a 
time.  Then  it  came  to  when  I  was  just  three 
people  away  from  him.  And  I  was  looking 
straight  at  him. 

He  saw  me  then.  And,  oh,  how  I  did  love  the 
look  that  came  to  his  face;  it  was  so  surprised 
and  glad,  and  said,  "Oh!  You!"  in  such  a  per- 
fectly lovely  way  that  I  choked  all  up  and 
wanted  to  cry,  (The  idea!  —  cry  when  I  was  so 
glad  to  see  him !) 

I  guess  the  two  folks  ahead  of  me  did  n't 
think  they  got  much  attention,  and  the  next 
minute  he  had  drawn  me  out  of  the  line,  and  we 
were  both  talking  at  once,  and  telling  each  other 
how  glad  we  were  to  see  each  other. 

But  he  was  looking  for  Mother  —  I  know  he 
was;  for  the  next  minute  after  he  saw  me,  he 
looked  right  over  my  head  at  the  woman  back 
of  me.  And  all  the  while  he  was  talking  with  me, 
his  eyes  would  look  at  me  and  then  leap  as  swift 
as  lightning  first  here,  and  then  there,  all  over 
the  hall.  But  he  did  n't  see  her.  I  knew  he  did  n't 
see  her,  by  the  look  on  his  face.  And  pretty 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY 

quick  I  said  I'd  have  to  go.  And  then  he 
said: 

"Your  mother  —  perhaps  she  didn't  —  did 
she  come?"  And  his  face  grew  all  red  and  rosy 
as  he  asked  the  question. 

And  I  said  yes,  and  she  was  waiting,  and  that 
was  why  I  had  to  go  back  right  away. 

And  he  said,  "Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  and, 
"good-bye."  But  he  still  held  my  hand  tight, 
and  his  eyes  were  still  roving  all  over  the 
house.  And  I  had  to  tell  him  again  that  I 
really  had  to  go;  and  I  had  to  pull  real  deter- 
mined at  my  hand,  before  I  could  break  away. 
And  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  gone  even 
then  if  some  other  folks  had  n't  come  up  at  that 
minute. 

I  went  back  to  Mother  then.  The  hall  was 
almost  empty,  and  she  was  n't  anywhere  in 
sight  at  all;  but  I  found  her  just  outside  the 
door.  I  knew  then  why  Father's  face  showed  that 
he  had  n't  found  her.  She  was  n't  there  to  find. 
I  suspect  she  had  looked  out  for  that. 

Her  face  was  still  pinky-white,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining;  and  she  wanted  to  know  every- 
thing we  had  said  —  everything.  So  she  found 
out,  of  course,  that  he  had  asked  if  she  was 
there.  But  she  did  n't  say  anything  herself,  not 
anything.  She  did  n't  say  anything,  either,  at 
the  luncheon  table,  when  Grandfather  was  talk- 


230  MARY  MARIE 

ing  with  Aunt  Hattie  about  the  lecture,  and 
telling  some  of  the  things  Father  had  said. 

Grandfather  said  it  was  an  admirable  address, 
scholarly  and  convincing,  or  something  like  that. 
And  he  said  that  he  thought  Dr.  Anderson  had 
improved  greatly  in  looks  and  manner.  And  he 
looked  straight  at  Mother  when  he  said  that; 
but  still  Mother  never  said  a  word. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  walk  with  one  of 
the  girls;  and  when  I  came  in  I  could  n't  find 
Mother.  She  wasn't  anywhere  downstairs,  nor 
in  her  room,  nor  mine,  nor  anywhere  else  on  that 
floor.  Aunt  Hattie  said  no,  she  was  n't  out,  but 
that  she  was  sure  she  didn't  know  where  she 
was.  She  must  be  somewhere  in  the  house. 

I  went  upstairs  then,  another  flight.  There 
was  n't  anywhere  else  to  go,  and  Mother  must  be 
somewhere,  of  course.  And  it  seemed  suddenly  to 
me  as  if  I  'd  just  got  to  find  her.  I  wanted  her  so. 

And  I  found  her. 

In  the  little  back  room  where  Aunt  Hattie 
keeps  her  trunks  and  moth-ball  bags,  Mother 
was  on  the  floor  in  the  corner  crying.  And  when 
I  exclaimed  out  and  ran  over  to  her,  I  found  she 
was  sitting  beside  an  old  trunk  that  was  open; 
and  across  her  lap  was  a  perfectly  lovely  pale- 
blue  satin  dress  all  trimmed  with  silver  lace  that 
had  grown  black.  And  Mother  was  crying  and 
crying  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  231 

Of  course,  I  tried  and  tried  to  stop  her,  and  I 
begged  her  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter.  But 
I  could  n't  do  a  thing,  not  a  thing,  not  for  a  long 
time.  Then  I  happened  to  say  what  a  lovely 
dress,  only  what  a  pity  it  was  that  the  lace  was 
all  black. 

She  gave  a  little  choking  cry  then,  and  began 
to  talk  —  little  short  sentences  all  choked  up 
with  sobs,  so  that  I  could  hardly  tell  what  she 
was  talking  about.  Then,  little  by  little,  I  began 
to  understand. 

She  said  yes,  it  was  all  black  —  tarnished;  and 
that  it  was  just  like  everything  that  she  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  —  tarnished:  her  life 
and  her  marriage,  and  Father's  life,  and  mine  — 
everything  was  tarnished,  just  like  that  silver 
lace  on  that  dress.  And  she  had  done  it  by  her 
thoughtless  selfishness  and  lack  of  self -discipline. 

And  when  I  tried  and  tried  to  tell  her  no,  it 
was  n't,  and  that  I  did  n't  feel  tarnished  a  bit, 
and  that  she  was  n't,  nor  Father  either,  she 
only  cried  all  the  more,  and  shook  her  head  and 
began  again,  all  choked  up. 

She  said  this  little  dress  was  the  one  she  wore 
at  the  big  reception  where  she  first  met  Father. 
It  was  a  beautiful  blue  then,  all  shining  and  spot- 
less, and  the  silver  lace  glistened  like  frost  in 
the  sunlight.  And  she  was  so  proud  and  happy 
when  Father  —  and  he  was  fine  and  splendid 


232  MARY  MARIE 

and  handsome  then,  too,  she  said  —  singled  her 
out,  and  just  could  n't  seem  to  stay  away  from 
her  a  minute  all  the  evening.  And  then  four  days 
later  he  asked  her  to  marry  him;  and  she  was 
still  more  proud  and  happy. 

And  she  said  their  married  life,  when  they 
started  out,  was  just  like  that  beautiful  dress,  all 
shining  and  spotless  and  perfect;  but  that  it 
was  n't  two  months  before  a  little  bit  of  tarnish 
appeared,  and  then  another  and  another. 

She  said  she  was  selfish  and  willful  and  exact- 
ing, and  wanted  Father  all  to  herself;  and  she  did 
n't  stop  to  think  that  he  had  his  work  to  do,  and 
his  place  to  make  in  the  world;  and  that  all  of 
living,  to  him,  was  n't  just  in  being  married  to 
her,  and  attending  to  her  every  whim.  She  said 
she  could  see  it  all  now,  but  that  she  could  n't 
then,  she  was  too  young,  and  undisciplined,  and 
she  'd  never  been  denied  a  thing  in  the  world  she 
wanted.  As  she  said  that,  right  before  my  eyes 
rose  that  box  of  chocolates  she  made  me  eat  one 
at  a  time;  but,  of  course,  I  did  n't  say  anything! 
Besides,  Mother  hurried  right  on  talking. 

She  said  things  went  on  worse  and  worse  — 
and  it  was  all  her  fault.  She  grew  sour  and  cross 
and  disagreeable.  She  could  see  now  that  she 
did.  But  she  did  not  realize  at  all  then  what 
she  was  doing.  She  was  just  thinking  of  herself  — 
always  herself;  her  rights,  her  wrongs,  her  hurt 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  233 

feelings,  her  wants  and  wishes.  She  never  once 
thought  that  he  had  rights  and  wrongs  and  hurt 
feelings,  maybe. 

And  so  the  tarnish  kept  growing  more  and 
more.  She  said  there  was  nothing  like  selfishness 
to  tarnish  the  beautiful  fabric  of  married  life. 
(Is  n't  that  a  lovely  sentence?  I  said  that  over 
and  over  to  myself  so  as  to  be  sure  and  remember 
it,  so  I  could  get  it  into  this  story.  I  thought  it 
was  beautiful.) 

She  said  a  lot  more  —  oh,  ever  so  much  more; 
but  I  can't  remember  it  all.  (I  lost  some  while  I 
was  saying  that  sentence  over  and  over,  so  as 
to  remember  it.)  I  know  that  she  went  on  to  say 
that  by  and  by  the  tarnish  began  to  dim  the 
brightness  of  my  life,  too;  and  that  was  the 
worst  of  all,  she  said  —  that  innocent  children 
should  suffer,  and  their  young  lives  be  spoiled 
by  the  kind  of  living  I'd  had  to  have,  with  this 
wretched  makeshift  of  a  divided  home.  She  be- 
gan to  cry  again  then,  and  begged  me  to  for- 
give her,  and  I  cried  and  tried  to  tell  her  I  did  n't 
mind  it;  but,  of  course,  I'm  older  now,  and  I 
know  I  do  mind  it,  though  I'm  trying  just  as 
hard  as  I  can  not  to  be  Mary  when  I  ought  to  be 
Marie,  or  Marie  when  I  ought  to  be  Mary.  Only 
I  get  all  mixed  up  so,  lately,  and  I  said  so,  and  I 
guess  I  cried  some  more. 

Mother  jumped  up  then,  and  said,  "Tut,  tut,,r 


234  MARY  MARIE 

what  was  she  thinking  of  to  talk  like  this  when 
it  couldn't  do  a  bit  of  good,  but  only  made 
matters  worse.  And  she  said  that  only  went  to 
prove  how  she  was  still  keeping  on  tarnishing  my 
happiness  and  bringing  tears  to  my  bright  eyes, 
when  certainly  nothing  of  the  whole  wretched 
business  was  my  fault. 

She  thrust  the  dress  back  into  the  trunk  then, 
and  shut  the  lid.  Then  she  took  me  downstairs 
and  bathed  my  eyes  and  face  with  cold  water, 
and  hers,  too.  And  she  began  to  talk  and  laugh 
and  tell  stories,  and  be  gayer  and  jollier  than  I'd 
seen  her  for  ever  so  long.  And  she  was  that  way 
at  dinner,  too,  until  Grandfather  happened  to 
mention  the  reception  to-morrow  night,  and  ask 
if  she  was  going. 

She  flushed  up  red  then,  oh,  so  red!  and  said, 
"  Certainly  not."  Then  she  added  quick,  with  a 
funny  little  drawing-in  of  her  breath,  that  she 
should  let  Marie  go,  though,  with  her  Aunt 
Hattie. 

There  was  an  awful  fuss  then.  Aunt  Hattie 
raised  her  eyebrows  and  threw  up  her  hands, 
and  said: 

"That  child  —  in  the  evening!  Why,  Madge, 
are  you  crazy?" 

And  Mother  said  no,  she  was  n't  crazy  at  all; 
but  it  was  the  only  chance  Father  would  have  to 
see  me,  and  she  did  n't  feel  that  she  had  any 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  235 

right  to  deprive  him  of  that  privilege,  and  she 
did  n't  think  it  would  do  me  any  harm  to  be  out 
this  once  late  in  the  evening.  And  she  intended 
to  let  me  go. 

Aunt  Hattie  still  did  n't  approve,  and  she  said 
more,  quite  a  lot  more;  but  Grandfather  spoke 
up  and  took  my  part,  and  said  that,  in  his 
opinion,  Madge  was  right,  quite  right,  and  that 
it  was  no  more  than  fair  that  the  man  should 
have  a  chance  to  talk  with  his  own  child  for  a 
little  while,  and  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to 
take  me  himself  and  look  after  me,  if  Aunt 
Hattie  did  not  care  to  take  the  trouble. 

Aunt  Hattie  bridled  up  at  that,  and  said  that 
that  wasn't  the  case  at  all;  that  she'd  be  very 
glad  to  look  after  me;  and  if  Mother  had  quite 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  wanted  me  to  go, 
they'd  call  the  matter  settled. 

And  Mother  said  she  had,  and  so  it  was  set- 
tled. And  I'm  going.  I'm  to  wear  my  new  white 
dress  with  the  pink  rosebud  trimming,  and  I'm 
so  excited  I  can  hardly  wait  till  to-morrow  night. 
But  —  oh,  if  only  Mother  would  go,  too! 

Two  days  later. 

Well,  now  I  guess  something's  doing  all  right! 
And  my  hand  is  shaking  so  I  can  hardly  write  — 
it  wants  to  get  ahead  so  fast  and  tell.  But  I'm 
going  to  keep  it  sternly  back  and  tell  it  just  as 


236  MARY  MARIE 

it  happened,  and  not  begin  at  the  ice-cream 
instead  of  the  soup. 

Very  well,  then.  I  went  last  night  with  Grand- 
father and  Aunt  Hattie  to  the  reception;  and 
Mother  said  I  looked  very  sweet,  and  any-father- 
ought-to-be-proudof  me  in  my  new  dress.  Grand- 
father patted  me,  put  on  his  glasses,  and  said, 
"Well,  well,  bless  my  soul!  Is  this  our  little 
Mary  Marie?"  And  even  Aunt  Hattie  said  if  I 
acted  as  well  as  I  looked  I  'd  do  very  well.  Then 
Mother  kissed  me  and  ran  upstairs  quick.  But  I 
saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  I  knew  why  she 
hurried  so. 

At  the  reception  I  saw  Father  right  away,  but 
he  did  n't  see  me  for  a  long  time.  He  stood  in  a 
corner,  and  lots  of  folks  came  up  and  spoke  to 
him  and  shook  hands;  and  he  bowed  and  smiled 
—  but  in  between,  when  there  was  n't  anybody 
noticing,  he  looked  so  tired  and  bored.  After  a 
time  he  stirred  and  changed  his  position,  and  I 
think  he  was  hunting  for  a  chance  to  get  away, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  his  eyes,  roving  around  the 
room,  lighted  on  me. 

My!  but  just  did  n't  I  love  the  way  he  came 
through  that  crowd,  straight  toward  me,  without 
paying  one  bit  of  attention  to  the  folks  that  tried 
to  stop  him  on  the  way.  And  when  he  got  to  me, 
he  looked  so  glad  to  see  me,  only  there  was  the 
same  quick  searching  with  his  eyes,  beyond  and 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  237 

around  me,  as  if  he  was  looking  for  somebody 
else,  just  as  he  had  done  the  morning  of  the 
lecture.  And  I  knew  it  was  Mother,  of  course. 
So  I  said: 

"No,  she  did  n't  come." 

"So  I  see,"  he  answered.  And  there  was  such 
a  hurt,  sorry  look  away  back  in  his  eyes.  But 
right  away  he  smiled,  and  said:  "But  you  came  ! 
I've  got  you'9 

Then  he  began  to  talk  and  tell  stories,  just  as 
if  I  was  a  young  lady  to  be  entertained.  And  he 
took  me  over  to  where  they  had  things  to  eat, 
and  just  heaped  my  plate  with  chicken  patties 
and  sandwiches  and  olives  and  pink-and-white 
frosted  cakes  and  ice-cream  (not  all  at  once,  of 
course,  but  in  order).  And  I  had  a  perfectly 
beautiful  time.  And  Father  seemed  to  like  it 
pretty  well.  But  after  a  while  he  grew  sober 
again,  and  his  eyes  began  to  rove  all  around  the 
room. 

He  took  me  to  a  little  seat  in  the  corner  then, 
and  we  sat  down  and  began  to  talk  —  only 
Father  didn't  talk  much.  He  just  listened  to 
what  I  said,  and  his  eyes  grew  deeper  and  darker 
and  sadder,  and  they  did  n't  rove  around  so 
much,  after  a  time,  but  just  stared  fixedly  at 
nothing,  away  out  across  the  room.  By  and  by 
he  stirred  and  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  said,  almost 
under  his  breath: 


238  MARY  MARIE 

"It  was  just  such  another  night  as  this." 

And  of  course,  I  asked  what  was  —  and  then 
I  knew,  almost  before  he  had  told  me. 

"That  I  first  saw  your  mother,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know!"  I  cried,  eager  to  tell  him 
that  I  did  know.  "And  she  must  have  looked 
lovely  in  that  perfectly  beautiful  blue  silk  dress 
all  silver  lace." 

He  turned  and  stared  at  me. 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  he  demanded. 

"I  saw  it." 

"You  saw  it!" 

"Yesterday,  yes  —  the  dress,"  I  nodded. 

"But  how  could  you?  "  he  asked,  frowning,  and 
looking  so  surprised.  "Why,  that  dress  must  be 
—  seventeen  years  old,  or  more." 

I  nodded  again,  and  I  suppose  I  did  look 
pleased:  it's  such  fun  to  have  a  secret,  you 
know,  and  watch  folks  guess  and  wonder.  And  I 
kept  him  guessing  and  wondering  for  quite  a 
while.  Then,  of  course,  I  told  him  that  it  was  up- 
stairs in  Grandfather's  trunk-room;  that  Mother 
had  got  it  out,  and  I  saw  it. 

"But,  what  —  was  your  mother  doing  with 
that  dress?"  he  asked  then,  looking  even  more 
puzzled  and  mystified. 

And  then  suddenly  I  thought  and  remem- 
bered that  Mother  was  crying.  And,  of  course, 
she  would  n't  want  Father  to  know  she  was 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  239 

crying  over  it  —  that  dress  she  had  worn  when 
he  first  met  her  long  ago!  (I  don't  think  women 
ever  want  men  to  know  such  things,  do  you?  I 
know  I  should  n't!)  So  I  did  n't  tell.  I  just  kind 
of  tossed  it  off,  and  mumbled  something  about 
her  looking  it  over;  and  I  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing else,  but  I  saw  that  Father  was  n't  listen- 
ing. He  had  begun  to  talk  again,  softly,  as  if  to 
himself. 

"I  suppose  to-night,  seeing  you,  and  all  this, 
brought  it  back  to  me  so  vividly."  Then  he 
turned  and  looked  at  me.  "You  are  very  like 
your  mother  to-night,  dear." 

"I  suppose  I  am,  maybe,  when  I'm  Marie," 
I  nodded. 

He  laughed  with  his  lips,  but  his  eyes  did  n't 
laugh  one  bit  as  he  said: 

"What  a  quaint  little  fancy  of  yours  that  is, 
child  —  as  if  you  were  two  in  one." 

"But  I  am  two  in  one,"  I  declared.  "That's 
why  I'm  a  cross-current  and  a  contradiction, 
you  know,"  I  explained. 

I  thought  he'd  understand.  But  he  didn't.  I 
supposed,  of  course,  he  knew  what  a  cross-cur- 
rent and  a  contradiction  was.  But  he  turned 
again  and  stared  at  me. 

"A  — what?"  he  demanded. 

"A  cross-current  and  a  contradiction,"  I  ex- 
plained once  more.   "Children  of  unlikes,  you 


240  MARY  MARIE 

know.  Nurse  Sarah  told  me  that  long  ago.  Did  n't 
you  ever  hear  that  —  that  a  child  of  unlikes 
was  a  cross-current  and  a  contradiction?" 

"Well,  no  —  I  —  hadn't,"  answered  Father, 
in  a  queer,  half -smothered  voice.  He  half  started 
from  his  seat.  I  think  he  was  going  to  walk  up 
and  down,  same  as  he  usually  does.  But  in  a 
minute  he  saw  he  could  n't,  of  course,  with  all 
those  people  around  there.  So  he  sat  back  again 
in  his  chair.  For  a  minute  he  just  frowned  and 
stared  at  nothing;  then  he  spoke  again,  as  if  half 
to  himself. 

"I  suppose,  Mary,  we  were  —  unlikes,  your 
mother  and  I.  That's  just  what  we  were;  though 
I  never  thought  of  it  before,  in  just  that  way." 

He  waited,  then  went  on,  still  half  to  himself, 
his  eyes  on  the  dancers: 

"She  loved  things  like  this  —  music,  laughter, 
gayety.  I  abhorred  them.  I  remember  how  bored 
I  was  that  night  here  —  till  I  saw  her." 

"And  did  you  fall  in  love  with  her  right  away?  " 
I  just  could  n't  help  asking  that  question.  Oh,  I 
do  so  adore  love  stories! 

A  queer  little  smile  came  to  Father's  lips. 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  I  did,  Mary.  There 'd  been 
dozens  and  dozens  of  young  ladies  that  had 
flitted  by  in  their  airy  frocks  —  and  I  never 
looked  twice  at  them.  I  never  looked  twice  at 
your  mother,  for  that  matter,  Mary."  (A  funny 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  241 

little  twinkle  came  into  Father's  eyes.  I  love 
him  with  that  twinkle!)  "I  just  looked  at  her 
once  —  and  then  kept  on  looking  till  it  seemed 
as  if  I  just  could  n't  take  my  eyes  off  her.  And 
after  a  little  her  glance  met  mine  —  and  the 
whole  throng  melted  away,  and  there  was  n't 
another  soul  in  the  room  but  just  us  two.  Then 
she  looked  away,  and  the  throng  came  back. 
But  I  still  looked  at  her." 

"Was  she  so  awfully  pretty,  Father?"  I  could 
feel  the  little  thrills  tingling  all  over  me.  Now  I 
was  getting  a  love  story! 

"She  was,  my  dear.  She  was  very  lovely.  But 
it  was  n't  just  that  —  it  was  a  joyous  something 
that  I  could  not  describe.  It  was  as  if  she  were 
a  bird,  poised  for  flight.  I  know  it  now  for  what 
it  was  —  the  very  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of 
youth.  And  she  was  young.  Why,  Mary,  she  was 
not  so  many  years  older  than  you  yourself,  now." 

I  nodded,  and  I  guess  I  sighed. 

"I  know  —  where  the  brook  and  river  meet," 
I  said;  "only  they  won't  let  me  have  any  lovers 
at  all." 

"Eh?  What?"  Father  had  turned  and  was  look- 
ing at  me  so  funny.  "Well,  no,  I  should  say  not," 
he  said  then.  "You  aren't  sixteen  yet.  And 
your  mother  —  I  suspect  she  was  too  young.  If 
she  had  n't  been  quite  so  young  —  " 

He  stopped,  and  stared  again  straight  ahead 


242  MARY  MARIE 

at  the  dancers  —  without  seeing  one  of  them,  I 
knew.  Then  he  drew  a  great  deep  sigh  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  very  bottom  of  his 
boots. 

"But  it  was  my  fault,  my  fault,  every  bit  of 
it,"  he  muttered,  still  staring  straight  ahead. 
"If  I  hadn't  been  so  thoughtless —  As  if  I 
could  imprison  that  bright  spirit  of  youth  in  a 
great  dull  cage  of  conventionality,  and  not  ex- 
pect it  to  bruise  its  wings  by  fluttering  against 
the  bars ! " 

I  thought  that  was  perfectly  beautiful  —  that 
sentence.  I  said  it  right  over  to  myself  two  or 
three  times  so  I  wouldn't  forget  how  to  write 
it  down  here.  So  I  did  n't  quite  hear  the  next 
things  that  Father  said.  But  when  I  did  notice, 
I  found  he  was  still  talking  —  and  it  was  about 
Mother,  and  him,  and  their  marriage,  and  their 
first  days  at  the  old  house.  I  knew  it  was  that, 
even  if  he  did  mix  it  all  up  about  the  spirit  of 
youth  beating  its  wings  against  the  bars.  And 
over  and  over  again  he  kept  repeating  that  it 
was  his  fault,  it  was  his  fault;  and  if  he  could 
only  live  it  over  again  he'd  do  differently. 

And  right  there  and  then  it  came  to  me  that 
Mother  said  it  was  her  fault,  too;  and  that  if 
only  she  could  live  it  over  again,  she'd  do  dif- 
ferently. And  here  was  Father  saying  the  same 
thing.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  thought,  well,  why 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  243 

can't  they  try  it  over  again,  if  they  both  want 
to,  and  if  each  says  it  was  their  —  no,  his,  no, 
hers  —  well,  his  and  her  fault.  (How  does  the 
thing  go?  I  hate  grammar!)  But  I  mean,  if  she 
says  it's  her  fault,  and  he  says  it's  his.  That's 
what  I  thought,  anyway.  And  I  determined 
right  then  and  there  to  give  them  the  chance  to 
try  again,  if  speaking  would  do  it. 

I  looked  up  at  Father.  He  was  still  talking 
half  under  his  breath,  his  eyes  looking  straight 
ahead.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  me.  That  was 
plain  to  be  seen.  If  I  'd  been  a  cup  of  coffee  with- 
out any  coffee  in  it,  he'd  have  been  stirring  me. 
I  know  he  would.  He  was  like  that. 

"Father.  Father!''  I  had  to  speak  twice,  be- 
fore he  heard  me.  "Do  you  really  mean  that  you 
would  like  to  try  again?"  I  asked. 

"Eh?  What?"  And  just  the  way  he  turned 
and  looked  at  me  showed  how  many  miles  he  'd 
been  away  from  me. 

"Try  it  again,  you  know  —  what  you  said," 
I  reminded  him. 

"Oh,  that!"  Such  a  funny  look  came  to  his 
face,  half  ashamed,  half  vexed.  "I'm  afraid  I 
have  been  —  talking,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  but  would  you?"  I  persisted. 

He  shook  his  head;  then,  with  such  an  oh- 
that-it-could-be !  smile,  he  said: 

"Of  course;  —  we  all  wish  that  we  could  go 


244  MARY  MARIE 

back  and  do  it  over  again  —  differently.  But  we 
never  can." 

"I  know;  like  the  cloth  that's  been  cut  up 
into  the  dress,"  I  nodded. 

"Cloth?  Dress?"  frowned  Father. 

"Yes,  that  Mother  told  me  about,"  I  ex- 
plained. Then  I  told  him  the  story  that  Mother 
had  told  me  —  how  you  could  n't  go  back  and 
be  unmarried,  just  as  you  were  before,  any  more 
than  you  could  put  the  cloth  back  on  the  shelf, 
all  neatly  folded  in  a  great  long  web  after  it  had 
been  cut  up  into  a  dress. 

"Did  your  mother  say  —  that?"  asked  Fa- 
ther. His  voice  was  husky,  and  his  eyes  were 
turned  away,  but  they  were  not  looking  at  the 
dancers.  He  was  listening  to  me  now.  I  knew 
that,  and  so  I  spoke  quick,  before  he  could  get 
absent-minded  again. 

"Yes,  but,  Father,  you  can  go  back,  in  this 
case,  and  so  can  Mother,  'cause  you  both  want 
to,"  I  hurried  on,  almost  choking  in  my  anxiety 
to  get  it  all  out  quickly.  "And  Mother  said  it 
was  her  fault.  I  heard  her." 

"Her  fault!"  I  could  see  that  Father  did  not 
quite  understand,  even  yet. 

"Yes,  yes,  just  as  you  said  it  was  yours  — 
about  all  those  things  at  the  first,  you  know, 
when  —  when  she  was  a  spirit  of  youth  beating 
against  the  bars." 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  245 

Father  turned  square  around  and  faced  me. 

" Mary,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "  he  asked 
then.  And  I  'd  have  been  scared  of  his  voice  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  great  light  that  was  shining 
in  his  eyes. 

But  I  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  was  n't  scared; 
and  I  told  him  everything,  every  single  thing  — 
all  about  how  Mother  had  cried  over  the  little 
blue  dress  that  day  in  the  trunk-room,  and  how 
she  had  shown  the  tarnished  lace  and  said  that 
she  had  tarnished  the  happiness  of  him  and  of  her- 
self and  of  me;  and  that  it  was  all  her  fault;  that 
she  was  thoughtless  and  willful  and  exacting  and 
a  spoiled  child;  and,  oh,  if  she  could  only  try  it 
over  again,  how  differently  she  would  do!  And 
there  was  a  lot  more.  I  told  everything  —  every- 
thing I  could  remember.  Some  way,  I  did  n't  be- 
lieve that  Mother  would  mind  now,  after  what 
Father  had  said.  And  I  just  knew  she  would  n't 
mind  if  she  could  see  the  look  in  Father's  eyes  as 
I  talked. 

He  did  n't  interrupt  me  —  not  long  interrup- 
tions. He  did  speak  out  a  quick  little  word  now 
and  then,  at  some  of  the  parts;  and  once  I  know 
I  saw  him  wipe  a  tear  from  his  eyes.  After  that  he 
put  up  his  hand  and  sat  with  his  eyes  covered  all 
the  rest  of  the  time  I  was  talking.  And  he  did  n't 
take  it  down  till  I  said: 

"And  so,  Father,  that's  why  I  told  you;  'cause 


246  MARY  MARIE 

it  seemed  to  me  if  you  wanted  to  try  again,  and 
she  wanted  to  try  again,  why  can't  you  do  it?  Oh, 
Father,  think  how  perfectly  lovely  't  would  be  if 
you  did,  and  if  it  worked!  Why,  I  would  n't  care 
whether  I  was  Mary  or  Marie,  or  what  I  was.  I  'd 
have  you  and  Mother  both  together,  and,  oh,  how 
I  should  love  it!" 

It  was  just  here  that  Father's  arm  came  out 
and  slipped  around  me  in  a  great  big  hug. 

"Bless  your  heart!  But,  Mary,  my  dear,  how 
are  we  going  to  —  to  bring  this  about?"  And  he 
actually  stammered  and  blushed,  and  he  looked 
almost  young  with  his  eyes  so  shining  and  his 
lips  so  smiling.  And  then  is  when  my  second  great 
idea  came  to  me. 

"Oh,  Father!"  I  cried,  "couldn't  you  come 
courting  her  again  —  calls  and  flowers  and  candy, 
and  all  the  rest?  Oh,  Father,  could  n't  you?  Why, 
Father,  of  course,  you  could!" 

This  last  I  added  in  my  most  persuasive  voice, 
for  I  could  see  the  "no"  on  his  face  even  before 
he  began  to  shake  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  not,  my  dear,"  he  said  then.  "It 
would  take  more  than  a  flower  or  a  bonbon  to  — 
to  win  your  mother  back  now,  I  fear." 

"But  you  could  try,"  I  urged. 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"She  would  n't  see  me  —  if  I  called,  my  dear," 
he  answered. 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  247 

He  sighed  as  he  said  it,  and  I  sighed,  too.  And 
for  a  minute  I  did  n't  say  anything.  Of  course,  if 
she  would  n't  see  him  — 

Then  another  idea  came  to  me. 

"  But,  Father,  if  she  would  see  you  —  I  mean,  if 
you  got  a  chance,  you  would  tell  her  what  you 
told  me  just  now;  about  —  about  its  being  your 
fault,  I  mean,  and  the  spirit  of  youth  beat- 
ing against  the  bars,  and  all  that.  You  would, 
would  n't  you?" 

He  did  n't  say  anything,  not  anything,  for  such 
a  long  time  I  thought  he  had  n't  heard  me.  Then, 
with  a  queer,  quick  drawing-in  of  his  breath,  he 
said: 

"I  think  —  little  girl  —  if  —  if  I  ever  got  the 
chance  I  would  say  —  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
said  to  you  to-night." 

"Good!"  I  just  crowed  the  word,  and  I  think 
I  clapped  my  hands;  but  right  away  I  straight- 
ened up  and  was  very  fine  and  dignified,  for  I 
saw  Aunt  Hattie  looking  at  me  from  across  the 
room,  as  I  said: 

"Very  good,  then.  You  shall  have  the 
chance." 

He  turned  and  smiled  a  little,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

"Thank  you,  child;  but  I  don't  think  you 
know  quite  what  you're  promising,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  do." 


248  MARY  MARIE 

Then  I  told  him  my  idea.  At  first  he  said  no, 
and  it  couldn't  be,  and  he  was  very  sure  she 
would  n't  see  him,  even  if  he  called.  But  I  said 
she  would  if  he  would  do  exactly  as  I  said.  And  I 
told  him  my  plan.  And  after  a  time  and  quite  a 
lot  of  talk,  he  said  he  would  agree  to  it. 

And  this  morning  we  did  it. 

At  exactly  ten  o'clock  he  came  up  the  steps  of 
the  house  here,  but  he  did  n't  ring  the  bell.  I  had 
told  him  not  to  do  that,  and  I  was  on  the  watch 
for  him.  I  knew  that  at  ten  o'clock  Grandfather 
would  be  gone,  Aunt  Hattie  probably  downtown 
shopping,  and  Lester  out  with  his  governess.  I 
was  n't  so  sure  of  Mother,  but  I  knew  it  was 
Saturday,  and  I  believed  I  could  manage  some- 
how to  keep  her  here  with  me,  so  that  everything 
would  be  all  right  there. 

And  I  did.  I  had  a  hard  time,  though.  Seems  as 
if  she  proposed  everything  to  do  this  morning  — 
shopping,  and  a  walk,  and  a  call  on  a  girl  I  knew 
who  was  sick.  But  I  said  I  did  not  feel  like  doing 
anything  but  just  to  stay  at  home  and  rest  quietly 
with  her.  (Which  was  the  truth  —  I  did  n't  feel 
like  doing  anything  else!)  But  that  almost  made 
matters  worse  than  ever,  for  she  said  that  was  so 
totally  unlike  me  that  she  was  afraid  I  must  be 
sick;  and  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  her  from 
calling  a  doctor. 

But  I  did  it;  and  at  five  minutes  before  ten  she 


UmWPkM^,  \:  iiSf^  !  J  ■ 1 


THEN  I  TOLD  HIM  MY  IDEA 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  249 

was  sitting  quietly  sewing  in  her  own  room.  Then 
I  went  downstairs  to  watch  for  Father. 

He  came  just  on  the  dot,  and  I  let  him  in  and 
took  him  into  the  library.  Then  I  went  upstairs 
and  told  Mother  there  was  some  one  downstairs 
who  wanted  to  see  her. 

And  she  said,  how  funny,  and  was  n't  there  any 
name,  and  where  was  the  maid.  But  I  did  n't 
seem  to  hear.  I  had  gone  into  my  room  in  quite  a 
hurry,  as  if  I  had  forgotten  something  I  wanted 
to  do  there.  But,  of  course,  I  did  n't  do  a  thing  — 
except  to  make  sure  that  she  went  downstairs  to 
the  library. 

They  're  there  now  together.  And  he 's  been  here 
a  whole  hour  already.  Seems  as  if  he  ought  to  say 
something  in  that  length  of  time ! 

After  I  was  sure  Mother  was  down,  I  took  out 
this,  and  began  to  write  in  it.  And  I ' ve  been  writ- 
ing ever  since.  But,  oh,  I  do  so  wonder  what's 
going  on  down  there.  I  'm  so  excited  over  — 

One  week  later. 

At  just  that  minute  Mother  came  into  the 
room.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her.  My  stars, 
but  she  looked  pretty !  —  with  her  shining  eyes 
and  the  lovely  pink  in  her  cheeks.  And  young! 
Honestly,  I  believe  she  looked  younger  than  I 
did  that  minute. 

She  just  came  and  put  her  arms  around  me 


250  MARY  MARIE 

and  kissed  me;  and  I  saw  then  that  her  eyes  were 
all  misty  with  tears.  She  did  n't  say  a  word, 
hardly,  only  that  Father  wanted  to  see  me,  and 
I  was  to  go  right  down. 

And  I  went. 

I  thought,  of  course,  that  she  was  coming  too. 
But  she  did  n't.  And  when  I  got  down  the  stairs 
I  found  I  was  all  alone;  but  I  went  right  on  into 
the  library,  and  there  was  Father  waiting  for  me. 

He  did  n't  say  much,  either,  at  first;  but  just 
like  Mother  he  put  his  arms  around  me  and 
kissed  me,  and  held  me  there.  Then,  very  soon, 
he  began  to  talk;  and,  oh,  he  said  such  beautiful 
things  —  such  tender,  lovely,  sacred  things;  too 
sacred  even  to  write  down  here.  Then  he  kissed 
me  again  and  went  away. 

But  he  came  back  the  next  day,  and  he 's  been 
here  some  part  of  every  day  since.  And,  oh,  what 
a  wonderful  week  it  has  been ! 

They're  going  to  be  married.  It's  to-morrow. 
They'd  have  been  married  right  away  at  the 
first,  only  they  had  to  wait  —  something  about 
licenses  and  a  five-day  notice,  Mother  said. 
Father  fussed  and  fumed,  and  wanted  to  try  for 
a  special  dispensation,  or  something;  but  Mother 
laughed,  and  said  certainly  not,  and  that  she 
guessed  it  was  just  as  well,  for  she  positively  had 
to  have  a  few  things ;  and  he  need  n't  think  he 
could  walk  right  in  like  that  on  a  body  and  expect 


THE  REAL  LOVE  STORY  251 

her  to  get  married  at  a  moment's  notice.  But  she 
did  n't  mean  it.  I  know  she  did  n't;  for  when 
Father  reproached  her,  she  laughed  softly,  and 
called  him  an  old  goose,  and  said,  yes,  of  course, 
she'd  have  married  him  in  two  minutes  if  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  five-day  notice,  no  matter 
whether  she  ever  had  a  new  dress  or  not. 

And  that 's  the  way  it  is  with  them  all  the  time. 
They're  too  funny  and  lovely  together  for  any- 
thing. (Aunt  Hattie  says  they're  too  silly  for 
anything;  but  nobody  minds  Aunt  Hattie.)  They 
just  can't  seem  to  do  enough  for  each  other. 
Father  was  going  next  week  to  a  place  'way  ou 
the  other  side  of  the  world  to  view  an  eclipse  of 
the  moon,  but  he  said  right  off  he'd  give  it  up. 
But  Mother  said,  "No,  indeed,"  she  guessed  he 
would  ri  t  give  it  up;  that  he  was  going,  and  that 
she  was  going,  too  —  a  wedding  trip;  and  that 
she  was  sure  she  did  n't  know  a  better  place  to  go 
for  a  wedding  trip  than  the  moon!  And  Father 
was  so  pleased.  And  he  said  he  'd  try  not  to  pay 
all  his  attention  to  the  stars  this  time;  and 
Mother  laughed  and  said,  "Nonsense,"  and  that 
she  adored  stars  herself,  and  that  he  must  pay  at- 
tention to  the  stars.  It  was  his  business  to.  Then 
she  looked  very  wise  and  got  off  something  she  'd 
read  in  the  astronomy  book.  And  they  both 
laughed,  and  looked  over  to  me  to  see  if  I  was 
noticing.  And  I  was.  And  so  then  we  all  laughed. 


252  MARY  MARIE 

And,  as  I  said  before,  it  is  all  perfectly  lovely 
and  wonderful. 

So  it 's  all  settled,  and  they're  going  right  away 
on  this  trip  and  call  it  a  wedding  trip.  And,  of 
course,  Grandfather  had  to  get  off  his  joke  about 
how  he  thought  it  was  a  pretty  dangerous  busi- 
ness; and  to  see  that  this  honeymoon  did  n't  go 
into  an  eclipse  while  they  were  watching  the 
other  one.  But  nobody  minds  Grandfather. 

I  'm  to  stay  here  and  finish  school.  Then,  in  the 
spring,  when  Father  and  Mother  come  back,  we 
are  all  to  go  to  Andersonville  and  begin  to  live  in 
the  old  house  again. 

Won't  it  be  lovely?  It  just  seems  too  good  to 
be  true.  Why,  I  don't  care  a  bit  now  whether  I  'm 
Mary  or  Marie.  But,  then,  nobody  else  does, 
either.  In  fact,  both  of  them  call  me  the  whole 
name  now,  Mary  Marie.  I  don't  think  they  ever 
said  they  would.  They  just  began  to  do  it.  That 's 
all. 

Of  course,  anybody  can  see  why:  now  each  one 
is  calling  me  the  other  one's  name  along  with 
their  own.  That  is,  Mother  is  calling  me  Mary 
along  with  her  pet  Marie,  and  Father  is  calling 
me  Marie  along  with  his  pet  Mary. 

Funny,  is  n't  it? 

But  one  thing  is  sure,  anyway.  How  about  this 
being  a  love  story  now  t  Oh,  I  'm  so  excited ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

Which  is  the  Test 

Andersonville.     Twelve  years  later. 

Twelve  years  —  yes.  And  I'm  twenty-eight 
years  old.  Pretty  old,  little  Mary  Marie  of  the 
long  ago  would  think.  And,  well,  perhaps  to-day 
I  feel  just  as  old  as  she  would  put  it. 

I  came  up  into  the  attic  this  morning  to  pack 
away  some  things  I  shall  no  longer  need,  now 
that  I  am  going  to  leave  Jerry.  (Jerry  is  my  hus- 
band.) And  in  the  bottom  of  my  little  trunk  I 
found  this  manuscript.  I  had  forgotten  that  such 
a  thing  existed;  but  with  its  laboriously  written 
pages  before  me,  it  all  came  back  to  me;  and  I 
began  to  read;  here  a  sentence;  there  a  para- 
graph; somewhere  else  a  page.  Then,  with  a 
little  half  laugh  and  half  sob,  I  carried  it  to 
an  old  rocking-chair  by  the  cobwebby  dormer 
window,  and  settled  myself  to  read  it  straight 
through. 

And  I  have  read  it. 

Poor  little  Mary  Marie!  Dear  little  Mary  Ma- 
rie !  To  meet  you  like  this,  to  share  with  you  your 
joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  despairs,  of  those 
years  long  ago,  is  like  sitting  hand  in  hand  on  a 
sofa  with  a  childhood's  friend,  each  listening  to 


254  MARY  MARIE 

an  eager  "And  do  you  remember?"  falling  con- 
stantly from  delighted  lips  that  cannot  seem  to 
talk  half  fast  enough. 

But  you  have  taught  me  much,  little  Mary 
Marie.  I  understand  —  oh,  I  understand  so  many 
things  so  much  better,  now,  since  reading  this 
little  story  in  your  round  childish  hand.  You 
see,  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  was  a  Mary 
and  a  Marie  —  Jerry  calls  me  Mollie  —  and  I 
had  wondered  what  were  those  contending  forces 
within  me.  I  know  now.  It  is  the  Mary  and  the 
Marie  trying  to  settle  their  old,  old  quarrel. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  I  had  finished  the 
manuscript.  The  far  corners  of  the  attic  were 
peopled  with  fantastic  shadows,  and  the  spi- 
ders in  the  window  were  swaying,  lazy  and  full- 
stomached,  in  the  midst  of  the  day's  spoils  of 
gruesome  wings  and  legs.  I  got  up  slowly,  stiffly, 
shivering  a  little.  I  felt  suddenly  old  and  worn 
and  ineffably  weary.  It  is  a  long,  long  journey 
back  to  our  childhood  —  sometimes,  even  though 
one  may  be  only  twenty-eight. 

I  looked  down  at  the  last  page  of  the  manu- 
script. It  was  written  on  the  top  sheet  of  a  still 
thick  pad  of  paper,  and  my  fingers  fairly  tingled 
suddenly,  to  go  on  and  cover  those  unused  white 
sheets  —  tell  what  happened  next  —  tell  the  rest 
of  the  story;  not  for  the  sake  of  the  story  —  but 
for  my  sake.  It  might  help  me.  It  might  make 


THE  TEST  255 

things  clearer.  It  might  help  to  justify  myself 
in  my  own  eyes.  Not  that  I  have  any  doubts,  of 
course  (about  leaving  Jerry,  I  mean),  but  that 
when  I  saw  it  in  black  and  white  I  could  be  even 
more  convinced  that  I  was  doing  what  was  best 
for  him  and  best  for  me. 

So  I  brought  the  manuscript  down  to  my  own 
room,  and  this  evening  I  have  commenced  to 
write.  I  can't  finish  it  to-night,  of  course.  But  I 
have  to-morrow,  and  still  to-morrow.  (I  have  so 
many  to-morrows  now!  And  what  do  they  all 
amount  to?)  And  so  I'll  just  keep  writing,  as  I 
have  time,  till  I  bring  it  to  the  end. 

I'm  sorry  that  it  must  be  so  sad  and  sorry  an 
end.  But  there 's  no  other  way,  of  course.  There 
can  be  but  one  ending,  as  I  can  see.  I'm  sorry. 
Mother '11  be  sorry,  too.  She  does  n't  know  yet. 
I  hate  to  tell  her.  Nobody  knows  —  not  even 
Jerry  himself  —  yet.  They  all  think  I  'm  just 
making  a  visit  to  Mother  —  and  I  am  —  till  I 
write  that  letter  to  Jerry.  And  then  — 

I  believe  now  that  I'll  wait  till  I've  finished 
writing  this.  I'll  feel  better  then.  My  mind  will 
be  clearer.  I'll  know  more  what  to  say.  Just  the 
effort  of  writing  it  down  — 

Of  course,  if  Jerry  and  I  had  n't  — 

But  this  is  no  way  to  begin.  Like  the  little 
Mary  Marie  of  long  ago  I  am  in  danger  of  start- 
ing my  dinner  with  ice-cream  instead  of  soup! 


256  MARY  MARIE 

And  so  I  must  begin  where  I  left  off,  of  course. 
And  that  was  at  the  wedding. 

I  remember  that  wedding  as  if  it  were  yester- 
day. I  can  see  now,  with  Mary  Marie's  manu- 
script before  me,  why  it  made  so  great  an  impres- 
sion upon  me.  It  was  a  very  quiet  wedding,  of 
course  —  just  the  members  of  the  family  present. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  the  fine,  sweet  loveliness 
of  Mother's  face,  nor  the  splendid  strength  and 
tenderness  of  Father's.  And  the  way  he  drew  her 
into  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  after  it  was  all  over 
—  well,  I  remember  distinctly  that  even  Aunt 
Hattie  choked  up  and  had  to  turn  her  back  to 
wipe  her  eyes. 

They  went  away  at  once,  first  to  New  York  for 
a  day  or  two,  then  to  Andersonville,  to  prepare 
for  the  real  wedding  trip  to  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  I  stayed  in  Boston  at  school;  and  because 
nothing  of  consequence  happened  all  those  weeks 
and  months  is  the  reason,  I  suspect,  why  the 
manuscript  got  tossed  into  the  bottom  of  my  lit- 
tle trunk  and  stayed  there. 

In  the  spring,  when  Father  and  Mother  re- 
turned, and  we  all  went  back  to  Andersonville, 
there  followed  another  long  period  of  just  happy 
girlhood,  and  I  suspect  I  was  too  satisfied  and 
happy  to  think  of  writing.  After  all,  I've  noticed 
it's  when  we're  sad  or  troubled  over  something 
that  we  have  that  tingling  to  cover  perfectly 


THE  TEST  257 

good  white  paper  with  "confessions"  and  "sto- 
ries of  my  life."  As  witness  right  now  what  I'm 
doing. 

And  so  it 's  not  surprising,  perhaps,  that  Mary- 
Marie's  manuscript  still  lay  forgotten  in  the  lit- 
tle old  trunk  after  it  was  taken  up  to  the  attic. 
Mary  Marie  was  happy. 

And  it  was  happy  —  that  girlhood  of  mine^ 
after  we  came  back  to  Andersonville.  I  can  see 
now,  as  I  look  back  at  it,  that  Father  and  Mother 
were  doing  everything  in  their  power  to  blot  out 
of  my  memory  those  unhappy  years  of  my  child- 
hood. For  that  matter,  they  were  also  doing 
everything  in  their  power  to  blot  out  of  their  own 
memories  those  same  unhappy  years.  To  me,  as 
I  look  back  at  it,  it  seems  that  they  must  have 
succeeded  wonderfully.  They  were  very  happy, 
I  believe  —  Father  and  Mother. 

Oh,  it  was  not  always  easy  —  even  I  could  see 
that.  It  took  a  lot  of  adjusting  —  a  lot  of  rubbing 
off  of  square  corners  to  keep  the  daily  life  run- 
ning smoothly.  But  when  two  persons  are  deter- 
mined that  it  shall  run  smoothly  —  when  each 
is  steadfastly  looking  to  the  other's  happiness,  not 
at  his  own  —  why,  things  just  can't  help  smooth- 
ing out  then.  But  it  takes  them  both.  One  can't 
do  it  alone.  Now,  if  Jerry  would  only  — 

But  it  is  n't  time  to  speak  of  Jerry  yet. 

I  '11  go  back  to  my  girlhood. 


£58  MARY  MARIE 

It  was  a  trying  period  —  it  must  have  been  — • 
for  Father  and  Mother,  in  spite  of  their  great 
love  for  me,  and  their  efforts  to  create  for  me  a 
happiness  that  would  erase  the  past  from  my 
mind.  I  realize  it  now.  For,  after  all,  I  was  just  a 
girl  —  a  young  girl,  like  other  girls;  high-strung, 
nervous,  thoughtless,  full  of  my  whims  and  fan- 
cies; and,  in  addition,  with  enough  of  my  mother 
and  enough  of  my  father  within  me  to  make  me 
veritably  a  cross-current  and  a  contradiction,  as 
I  had  said  that  I  was  in  the  opening  sentence  of 
my  childish  autobiography. 

I  had  just  passed  my  sixteenth  birthday  when 
we  all  came  back  to  live  in  Anderson ville.  For  the 
first  few  months  I  suspect  that  just  the  glory  and 
the  wonder  and  joy  of  living  in  the  old  home, 
with  Father  and  Mother  happy  together,  was 
enough  to  fill  all  my  thoughts.  Then,  as  school 
began  in  the  fall,  I  came  down  to  normal  living 
again,  and  became  a  girl  —  just  a  growing  girl  in 
her  teens. 

How  patient  Mother  was,  and  Father,  too!  I 
can  see  now  how  gently  and  tactfully  they  helped 
me  over  the  stones  and  stumbling-blocks  that 
strew  the  pathway  of  every  sixteen-year-old  girl 
who  thinks,  because  she  has  turned  down  her 
dresses  and  turned  up  her  hair,  that  she  is  grown 
up,  and  can  do  and  think  and  talk  as  she  pleases. 

I  well  remember  how  hurt  and  grieved  and 


THE  TEST  259 

superior  I  was  at  Mother's  insistence  upon  more 
frequent  rubbers  and  warm  coats,  and  fewer  ice- 
cream sodas  and  chocolate  bonbons.  Why,  surely 
I  was  old  enough  now  to  take  care  of  myself! 
Was  n't  I  ever  to  be  allowed  to  have  my  own  opin- 
ions and  exercise  my  own  judgment?  It  seemed 
not !  Thus  spoke  superior  sixteen. 

As  for  clothes !  —  I  remember  distinctly  the 
dreary  November  rainstorm  of  the  morning  I  re- 
proachfully accused  Mother  of  wanting  to  make 
me  back  into  a  stupid  little  Mary,  just  because 
she  so  uncompromisingly  disapproved  of  the 
beaded  chains  and  bangles  and  jeweled  combs 
and  spangled  party  dresses  that  "every  girl  in 
school"  was  wearing.  Why,  the  idea!  Did  she 
want  me  to  dress  like  a  little  frump  of  a  coun- 
try girl?  It  seems  she  did. 

Poor  mother!  Dear  mother!  I  wonder  how  she 
kept  her  patience  at  all.  But  she  kept  it.  I  re- 
member that  distinctly,  too. 

It  was  that  winter  that  I  went  through  the 
morbid  period.  Like  our  childhood's  measles  and 
whooping  cough,  it  seems  to  come  to  most  of  us 
—  us  women  children.  I  wonder  why?  Certainly 
it  came  to  me.  True  to  type  I  cried  by  the  hour 
over  fancied  slights  from  my  schoolmates,  and 
brooded  days  at  a  time  because  Father  or  Mother 
"didn't  understand."  I  questioned  everything 
in  the  earth  beneath  and  the  heavens  above; 


260  MARY  MARIE 

and  in  my  dark  despair  over  an  averted  glance 
from  my  most  intimate  friend,  I  meditated  on 
whether  life  was,  or  was  not,  worth  the  living, 
with  a  preponderance  toward  the  latter. 

Being  plunged  into  a  state  of  settled  gloom,  I 
then  became  acutely  anxious  as  to  my  soul's  sal- 
vation, and  feverishly  pursued  every  ism  and 
ology  that  caught  my  roving  eye's  attention, 
until  in  one  short  month  I  had  become,  in  de- 
spairing rotation,  an  incipient  agnostic,  atheist, 
pantheist,  and  monist.  Meanwhile  I  read  Ibsen, 
and  wisely  discussed  the  new  school  of  domestic 
relationships. 

Mother  —  dear  mother !  —  looked  on  aghast. 
She  feared,  I  think,  for  my  life;  certainly  for  my 
sanity  and  morals. 

It  was  Father  this  time  who  came  to  the  res- 
cue. He  pooh-poohed  Mother's  fears;  said  it  was 
indigestion  that  ailed  me,  or  that  I  was  growing 
too  fast;  or  perhaps  I  did  n't  get  enough  sleep,  or 
needed,  maybe,  a  good  tonic.  He  took  me  out  of 
school,  and  made  it  a  point  to  accompany  me  on 
long  walks.  He  talked  with  me  —  not  to  me  — 
about  the  birds  and  the  trees  and  the  sunsets, 
and  then  about  the  deeper  things  of  life,  until, 
before  I  realized  it,  I  was  sane  and  sensible  once 
more,  serene  and  happy  in  the  simple  faith  of  my 
childhood,  with  all  the  isms  and  ologies  a  mere 
bad  dream  in  the  dim  past. 


THE  TEST  261 

I  was  seventeen,  if  I  remember  rightly,  when 
I  became  worried,  not  over  my  heavenly  estate 
now,  but  my  earthly  one.  I  must  have  a  career, 
of  course.  No  namby-pamby  everyday  living  of 
dishes  and  dusting  and  meals  and  babies  for  me. 
It  was  all  very  well,  of  course,  for  some  people. 
Such  things  had  to  be.  But  for  me  — 

I  could  write,  of  course;  but  I  was  not  sure 
but  that  I  preferred  the  stage.  At  the  same  time 
there  was  within  me  a  deep  stirring  as  of  a  call  to 
go  out  and  enlighten  the  world,  especially  that 
portion  of  it  in  darkest  Africa  or  deadliest  India. 
I  would  be  a  missionary. 

Before  I  was  eighteen,  however,  I  had  aban- 
doned all  this.  Father  put  his  foot  down  hard 
on  the  missionary  project,  and  Mother  put  hers 
down  on  the  stage  idea.  I  did  n't  mind  so  much, 
though,  as  I  remember,  for  on  further  study  and 
consideration,  I  found  that  flowers  and  applause 
were  not  all  of  an  actor's  life,  and  that  Africa  and 
India  were  not  entirely  desirable  as  a  place  of  res- 
idence for  a  young  woman  alone.  Besides,  I  had 
decided  by  then  that  I  could  enlighten  the  world 
just  as  effectually  (and  much  more  comfortably) 
by  writing  stories  at  home  and  getting  them 
printed. 

So  I  wrote  stories  —  but  I  did  not  get  any  of 
them  printed,  in  spite  of  my  earnest  efforts.  In 
time,  therefore,  that  idea,  also,  was  abandoned; 


262  MARY  MARIE 

and  with  it,  regretfully,  the  idea  of  enlightening 
the  world  at  all. 

Besides,  I  had  just  then  (again  if  I  remember 
rightfully)  fallen  in  love. 

Not  that  it  was  the  first  time.  Oh,  no,  not  at 
eighteen,  when  at  thirteen  I  had  begun  confi- 
dently and  happily  to  look  for  it !  What  a  senti- 
mental little  piece  I  was!  How  could  they  have 
been  so  patient  with  me  —  Father,  Mother, 
everybody ! 

I  think  the  first  real  attack  —  the  first  that  I 
consciously  called  love,  myself  —  was  the  winter 
after  we  had  all  come  back  to  Andersonville  to 
live.  I  was  sixteen  and  in  the  high  school. 

It  was  Paul  Mayhew  —  yes,  the  same  Paul 
Mayhew  that  had  defied  his  mother  and  sister 
and  walked  home  with  me  one  night  and  invited 
me  to  go  for  an  automobile  ride,  only  to  be  sent 
sharply  about  his  business  by  my  stern,  inexo- 
rable Aunt  Jane.  Paul  was  in  the  senior  class  now, 
and  the  handsomest,  most  admired  boy  in  school. 
He  did  n't  care  for  girls.  That  is,  he  said  he 
did  n't.  He  bore  himself  with  a  supreme  indiffer- 
ence that  was  maddening,  and  that  took  (appar- 
ently) no  notice  of  the  fact  that  every  girl  in 
school  was  a  willing  slave  to  the  mere  nodding 
of  his  head  or  the  beckoning  of  his  hand. 

This  was  the  condition  of  things  when  I  en- 
tered school  that  fall,  and  perhaps  for  a  week 


THE  TEST  263 

thereafter.  Then  one  day,  very  suddenly,  and 
without  apparent  reason,  he  awoke  to  the  fact 
of  my  existence.  Candy,  flowers,  books  —  some 
one  of  these  he  brought  to  me  every  morning. 
All  during  the  school  day  he  was  my  devoted 
gallant,  dancing  attendance  every  possible  min- 
ute outside  of  session  hours,  and  walking  home 
with  me  in  the  afternoon,  proudly  carrying  my 
books.  Did  I  say  "home  with  me"?  That  is  not 
strictly  true  —  he  always  stopped  just  one  block 
short  of  "home"  —  one  block  short  of  my  gate. 
He  evidently  had  not  forgotten  Aunt  Jane,  and 
did  not  intend  to  take  any  foolish  risks!  So  he 
said  good-bye  to  me  always  at  a  safe  distance. 

That  this  savored  of  deception,  or  was  in  any 
way  objectionable,  did  not  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  me.  Even  if  it  had,  I  doubt  very  much  if  my 
course  would  have  been  altered,  for  I  was  be- 
witched and  fascinated  and  thrilled  with  the  ex- 
citement of  it  all.  I  was  sixteen,  remember,  and 
this  wonderful  Adonis  and  woman-hater  had  cho- 
sen me,  me !  —  and  left  all  the  other  girls  deso- 
late and  sighing,  looking  after  us  with  longing 
eyes.  Of  course,  I  was  thrilled ! 

This  went  on  for  perhaps  a  week.  Then  he 
asked  me  to  attend  a  school  sleigh-ride  and  sup 
per  with  him. 

I  was  wild  with  delight.  At  the  same  time  I  was 
wild  with  apprehension.  I  awoke  suddenly  to  the 


264  MARY  MARIE 

fact  of  the  existence  of  Father  and  Mother,  and 
that  their  permission  must  be  gained.  And  I  had 
my  doubts  —  I  had  very  grave  doubts.  Yet  it 
seemed  to  me  at  that  moment  that  I  just  had  to 
go  on  that  sleigh-ride.  That  it  was  the  only  thing 
in  the  whole  wide  world  worth  while. 

I  can  remember  now,  as  if  it  were  yesterday, 
the  way  I  debated  in  my  mind  as  to  whether  I 
should  ask  Father,  Mother,  or  both  together; 
and  if  I  should  let  it  be  seen  how  greatly  I  de- 
sired to  go,  and  how  much  it  meant  to  me;  or  if 
I  should  just  mention  it  as  in  passing,  and  take 
their  permission  practically  for  granted. 

I  chose  the  latter  course,  and  I  took  a  time 
when  they  were  both  together.  At  the  breakfast- 
table  I  mentioned  casually  that  the  school  was  to 
have  a  sleigh-ride  and  supper  the  next  Friday 
afternoon  and  evening,  and  that  Paul  Mayhew 
had  asked  me  to  go  with  him.  I  said  I  hoped  it 
would  be  a  pleasant  night,  but  that  I  should  wear 
my  sweater  under  my  coat,  anyway,  and  I'd 
wear  my  leggings,  too,  if  they  thought  it  neces- 
sary. 

(Sweater  and  leggings !  Two  of  Mother's  hob- 
bies. Artful  child !) 

But  if  I  thought  that  a  sweater  and  a  pair  of 
leggings  could  muffle  their  ears  as  to  what  had 
gone  before,  I  soon  found  my  mistake. 

"A  sleigh-ride,  supper,  and  not  come  home  un- 


THE  TEST  265 

til  evening?"  cried  Mother.  "And  with  whom, 
did  you  say?" 

"Paul  Mayhew,"  I  answered.  I  still  tried  to 
speak  casually;  at  the  same  time  I  tried  to  indi- 
cate by  voice  and  manner  something  of  the  great 
honor  that  had  been  bestowed  upon  their  daugh- 
ter. 

Father  was  impressed  —  plainly  impressed; 
but  not  at  all  in  the  way  I  had  hoped  he  would 
be.  He  gave  me  a  swift,  sharp  glance;  then  looked 
straight  at  Mother. 

"  Humph !  Paul  Mayhew !  Yes,  I  know  him,"  he 
said  grimly.  "And  I'm  dreading  the  time  when 
he  comes  into  college  next  year." 

"You  mean — "  Mother  hesitated  and  stopped. 

"I  mean  I  don't  like  the  company  he  keeps  — 
already,"  nodded  Father. 

"Then  you  don't  think  that  Mary  Marie  — " 
Mother  hesitated  again,  and  glanced  at  me. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Father  decidedly. 

I  knew  then,  of  course,  that  he  meant  I  could 
n't  go  on  the  sleigh-ride,  even  though  he  had  n't 
said  the  words  right  out.  I  forgot  all  about  being 
casual  and  indifferent  and  matter-of-course  then. 
I  thought  only  of  showing  them  how  absolutely 
necessary  it  was  for  them  to  let  me  go  on  that 
sleigh-ride,  unless  they  wanted  my  life  forever- 
more  hopelessly  blighted. 

I  explained  carefully  how  he  was  the  hand' 


266  MARY  MARIE 

somest,  most  popular  boy  in  school,  and  how  all 
the  girls  were  just  crazy  to  be  asked  to  go  any- 
where with  him;  and  I  argued  what  if  Father  had 
seen  him  with  boys  he  did  not  like  —  then  that 
was  all  the  more  reason  why  nice  girls  like  me, 
when  he  asked  them,  should  go  with  him,  so  as 
to  keep  him  away  from  the  bad  boys !  And  I  told 
them,  that  this  was  the  first  and  last,  and  only 
sleigh-ride  of  the  school  that  year;  and  I  said  I'd 
be  heart-broken,  just  heart-broken,  if  they  did 
not  let  me  go.  And  I  reminded  them  again  that 
he  was  the  very  handsomest,  most  popular  boy 
in  school;  and  that  there  was  n't  a  girl  I  knew 
who  would  n't  be  crazy  to  be  in  my  shoes. 

Then  I  stopped,  all  out  of  breath,  and  I  can 
imagine  just  how  pleading  and  palpitating  I 
looked. 

I  thought  Father  was  going  to  refuse  right 
away,  but  I  saw  the  glance  that  Mother  threw 
him  —  the  glance  that  said,  "Let  me  attend  to 
this,  dear."  I'd  seen  that  glance  before,  several 
times,  and  I  knew  just  what  it  meant;  so  I  was 
n't  surprised  to  see  Father  shrug  his  shoulders 
and  turn  away  as  Mother  said  to  me : 

"Very  well,  dear.  I'll  think  it  over  and  let  you 
know  to-night." 

But  I  was  surprised  that  night  to  have  Mother 
say  I  could  go,  for  I  'd  about  given  up  hope,  after 
all  that  talk  at  the  breakfast-table.  And  she  said 


THE  TEST  267 

something  else  that  surprised  me,  too.  She  said 
she'd  like  to  know  Paul  Mayhew  herself;  that 
she  always  wanted  to  know  the  friends  of  her 
little  girl.  And  she  told  me  to  ask  him  to  call  the 
next  evening  and  play  checkers  or  chess  with  me. 

Happy?  I  could  scarcely  contain  myself  for 
joy.  And  when  the  next  evening  came  bringing 
Paul,  and  Mother,  all  prettily  dressed  as  if  he 
were  really  truly  company,  came  into  the  room 
and  talked  so  beautifully  to  him,  I  was  even 
more  entranced.  To  be  sure,  it  did  bother  me  a 
little  that  Paul  laughed  so  much,  and  so  loudly, 
and  that  he  could  n't  seem  to  find  anything  to 
talk  about  only  himself,  and  what  he  was  doing, 
and  what  he  was  going  to  do.  Some  way,  he  had 
never  seemed  like  that  at  school.  And  I  was 
afraid  Mother  would  n't  like  that. 

All  the  evening  I  was  watching  and  listening 
with  her  eyes  and  her  ears  everything  he  did, 
everything  he  said.  I  so  wanted  Mother  to  like 
him!  I  so  wanted  Mother  to  see  how  really  fine 
and  splendid  and  noble  he  was.  But  that  evening 
—  Why  could  n't  he  stop  talking  about  the  prizes 
he'd  won,  and  the  big  racing  car  he'd  just  or- 
dered for  next  summer?  There  was  nothing  fine 
and  splendid  and  noble  about  that.  And  were  his 
finger  nails  always  so  dirty? 

Why,  Mother  would  think  — 

Mother  did  not  stay  in  the  room  all  the  time; 


268  MARY  MARIE 

but  she  was  in  more  or  less  often  to  watch  the 
game;  and  at  half-past  nine  she  brought  in  some 
little  cakes  and  lemonade  as  a  surprise.  I  thought 
it  was  lovely;  but  I  could  have  shaken  Paul  when 
he  pretended  to  be  afraid  of  it,  and  asked  Mother 
if  there  was  a  stick  in  it. 

The  idea  —  Mother!  A  stick! 

I  just  knew  Mother  would  n't  like  that.  But 
if  she  did  n't,  she  never  showed  a  thing  in  her 
face.  She  just  smiled,  and  said  no,  there  was  n't 
any  stick  in  it;  and  passed  the  cakes. 

When  he  had  gone  I  remember  I  did  n't  like  to 
meet  Mother's  eyes,  and  I  did  n't  ask  her  how 
she  liked  Paul  Mayhew.  I  kept  right  on  talking 
fast  about  something  else.  Some  way,  I  did  n't 
want  Mother  to  talk  then,  for  fear  of  what  she 
would  say. 

And  Mother  did  n't  say  anything  about  Paul 
Mayhew  —  then.  But  only  a  few  days  later  she 
told  me  to  invite  him  again  to  the  house  (this 
time  to  a  chafing-dish  supper),  and  to  ask  Carrie 
Heywood  and  Fred  Small,  too. 

We  had  a  beautiful  time,  only  again  Paul  May- 
hew did  n't  "  show  off  "  at  all  in  the  way  I  wanted 
him  to  —  though  he  most  emphatically  "showed 
off"  in  his  way!  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  bragged 
even  more  about  himself  and  his  belongings  than 
he  had  before.  And  I  did  n't  like  at  all  the  way 
he  ate  his  food.  Why,  Father  did  n't  eat  like  that 


THE  TEST  269 

—  with  such  a  noisy  mouth,  and  such  a  rattling 
of  the  silverware ! 

And  so  it  went  —  wise  mother  that  she  was ! 
Far  from  prohibiting  me  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  Paul  Mayhew,  she  let  me  see  all  I  wanted 
to  of  him,  particularly  in  my  own  home.  She  let 
me  go  out  with  him,  properly  chaperoned,  and 
she  never,  by  word  or  manner,  hinted  that  she 
did  n't  admire  his  conceit  and  braggadocio. 

And  it  all  came  out  exactly  as  I  suspect  she  had 
planned  from  the  beginning.  When  Paul  May- 
hew  asked  to  be  my  escort  to  the  class  reception 
in  June,  I  declined  with  thanks,  and  immediately 
afterwards  told  Fred  Small  I  would  go  with  him. 
But  even  when  I  told  Mother  nonchalantly, 
and  with  carefully  averted  eyes,  that  I  was  going 
to  the  reception  with  Fred  Small  —  even  then 
her  pleasant  "Well,  that 's  good! "  conveyed  only 
cheery  mother  interest;  nor  did  a  hasty  glance 
into  her  face  discover  so  much  as  a  lifted  eye- 
brow to  hint,  "I  thought  you'd  come  to  your 
senses  sometime! " 

Wise  little  mother  that  she  was ! 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  (though 
nothing  was  said)  I  detected  a  subtle  change  in 
certain  matters,  however.  And  as  I  look  back  at 
it  now,  I  am  sure  I  can  trace  its  origin  to  my 
"affair"  with  Paul  Mayhew.  Evidently  Mother 
had  no  intention  of  running  the  risk  of  any  more 


270  MARY  MARIE 

block-away  courtships;  also  evidently  she  in- 
tended to  know  who  my  friends  were.  At  all  events, 
the  old  Anderson  mansion  soon  became  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  the  boys  and  girls  of  my  acquaint- 
ance. And  such  good  times  as  we  had,  with 
Mother  always  one  of  us,  and  ever  proposing 
something  new  and  interesting! 

And  because  boys  —  not  a  boy,  but  boys  — 
were  as  free  to  come  to  the  house  as  were  girls, 
they  soon  seemed  to  me  as  commonplace  and 
matter-of-course  and  free  from  sentimental  in- 
terest as  were  the  girls. 

Again  wise  little  mother! 

But,  of  course,  even  this  did  not  prevent  my 
falling  in  love  with  some  one  older  than  myself, 
some  one  quite  outside  of  my  own  circle  of  inti- 
mates. Almost  every  girl  in  her  teens  at  some  time 
falls  violently  in  love  with  some  remote  being 
almost  old  enough  to  be  her  father  —  a  being 
whom  she  endows  with  all  the  graces  and  per- 
fections of  her  dream  Adonis.  For,  after  all,  it 
is  n't  that  she  is  in  love  with  him,  this  man  of 
flesh  and  blood  before  her;  it  is  that  she  is  in  love 
with  love.  A  very  different  matter. 

My  especial  attack  of  this  kind  came  to  me 
when  I  was  barely  eighteen,  the  spring  I  was 
being  graduated  from  the  Andersonville  High 
School.  And  the  visible  embodiment  of  my  adora- 
tion was  the  head  master,  Mr.  Harold  Hartshorn, 


THE  TEST  271 

a  handsome,  clean-shaven,  well-set-up  man  of  (I 
should  judge)  thirty-five  years  of  age,  rather 
grave,  a  little  stern,  and  very  dignified. 

But  how  I  adored  him!  How  I  hung  upon  his 
every  word,  his  every  glance !  How  I  maneuvered 
to  win  from  him  a  few  minutes'  conversation  on 
a  Latin  verb  or  a  French  translation!  How  I 
thrilled  if  he  bestowed  upon  me  one  of  his  infre- 
quent smiles !  How  I  grieved  over  his  stern  aloof- 
ness! 

By  the  end  of  a  month  I  had  evolved  this:  his 
stern  aloofness  meant  that  he  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  love;  his  melancholy  was  loneliness  — 
his  heart  was  breaking.  How  I  longed  to  help, 
to  heal,  to  cure !  How  I  thrilled  at  the  thought  of 
the  love  and  companionship  I"  could  give  him 
somewhere  in  a  rose-embowered  cottage  far 
from  the  madding  crowd!  (He  boarded  at  the 
Andersonville  Hotel  alone  now.)  What  nobler 
career  could  I  have  than  the  blotting  out  of 
his  stricken  heart  the  memory  of  that  faithless 
woman  who  had  so  wounded  him  and  blighted 
his  youth?  What,  indeed?  If  only  he  could  see 
it  as  I  saw  it.  If  only  by  some  sign  or  token  he 
could  know  of  the  warm  love  that  was  his  but 
for  the  asking!  Could  he  not  see  that  no  longer 
need  he  pine  alone  and  unappreciated  in  the  An- 
dersonville Hotel?  Why,  in  just  a  few  weeks  I 
was  to  be  through  school.  And  then  — 


272  MARY  MARIE 

On  the  night  before  commencement  Mr. 
Harold  Hartshorn  ascended  our  front  steps,  rang 
the  bell,  and  called  for  my  father.  I  knew  be- 
cause I  was  upstairs  in  my  room  over  the  front 
door;  and  I  saw  him  come  up  the  walk  and  heard 
him  ask  for  Father. 

Oh,  joy!  Oh,  happy  day!  He  knew.  He  had  seen 
it  as  I  saw  it.  He  had  come  to  gain  Father's  per- 
mission, that  he  might  be  a  duly  accredited  suitor 
for  my  hand! 

During  the  next  ecstatic  ten  minutes,  with  my 
hand  pressed  against  my  wildly  beating  heart,  I 
planned  my  wedding  dress,  selected  with  care 
and  discrimination  my  trousseau,  furnished  the 
rose-embowered  cottage  far  from  the  madding 
crowd  —  and  wondered  why  Father  did  not  send 
for  me.  Then  the  slam  of  the  screen  door  down- 
stairs sent  me  to  the  window,  a  sickening  terror 
within  me. 

Was  he  going  —  without  seeing  me,  his  future 
bride?  Impossible! 

Father  and  Mr.  Harold  Hartshorn  stood  on  the 
front  steps  below,  talking.  In  another  minute  Mr. 
Harold  Hartshorn  had  walked  away,  and  Father 
had  turned  back  on  to  the  piazza. 

As  soon  as  I  could  control  my  shaking  knees,  I 
went  downstairs. 

Father  was  in  his  favorite  rocking-chair.  I  ad- 
vanced slowly.  I  did  not  sit  down. 


THE  TEST  273 

"Was  that  Mr.  Hartshorn?"  I  asked,  trying 
to  keep  the  shake  out  of  my  voice. 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  H-Hartshorn,"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"Yes.  He  came  to  see  me  about  the  Downer 
place,"  nodded  Father.  "He  wants  to  rent  it  for 
next  year." 

"To  rent  it  —  the  Downer  place ! "  (The  Dow- 
ner place  was  no  rose-embowered  cottage  far 
from  the  madding  crowd!  Why,  it  was  big,  and 
brick,  and  right  next  to  the  hotel !  I  did  n't  want 
to  live  there.) 

"Yes  —  for  his  wife  and  family.  He's  going  to 
bring  them  back  with  him  next  year,"  explained 
Father. 

"His  wife  and  family!"  I  can  imagine  about 
how  I  gasped  out  those  four  words. 

"Yes.  He  has  five  children,  I  believe,  and  —  ': 

But  I  had  fled  to  my  room. 

After  all,  my  recovery  was  rapid.  I  was  in  love 
with  love,  you  see;  not  with  Mr.  Harold  Harts- 
horn. Besides,  the  next  year  I  went  to  college. 
And  it  was  while  I  was  at  college  that  I  met  Jerry. 

Jerry  was  the  brother  of  my  college  friend, 
Helen  Weston.  Helen's  elder  sister  was  a  senior 
in  that  same  college,  and  was  graduated  at  the 
close  of  my  freshman  year.  The  father,  mother, 
and  brother  came  on  to  the  graduation.  And  that 
is  where  I  met  Jerry. 


274  MARY  MARIE 

If  it  might  be  called  meeting  him.  He  lifted  his 
hat,  bowed,  said  a  polite  nothing  with  his  lips, 
and  an  indifferent  "Oh,  some  friend  of  Helen's," 
with  his  eyes,  and  turned  to  a  radiant  blonde 
senior  at  my  side. 

And  that  was  all  —  for  him.  But  for  me  — 

All  that  day  I  watched  him  whenever  oppor- 
tunity offered;  and  I  suspect  that  I  took  care  that 
opportunity  offered  frequently.  I  was  fascinated. 
I  had  never  seen  any  one  like  him  before.  Tall, 
handsome,  brilliant,  at  perfect  ease,  he  plainly 
dominated  every  group  of  which  he  was  a  part. 
Toward  him  every  face  was  turned  —  yet  he 
never  seemed  to  know  it.  (Whatever  his  faults, 
Jerry  is  not  conceited.  I  will  give  him  credit  for 
that !)  To  me  he  did  not  speak  again  that  day.  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  even  looked  at  me.  If  he  did 
there  must  still  have  been  in  his  eyes  only  the 
"Oh,  some  friend  of  Helen's,"  that  I  had  seen  at 
the  morning  introduction. 

I  did  not  meet  Jerry  Weston  again  for  nearly 
a  year;  but  that  did  not  mean  that  I  did  not  hear 
of  him.  I  wonder  if  Helen  ever  noticed  how  often 
I  used  to  get  her  to  talk  of  her  home  and  her 
family  life;  and  how  interested  I  was  in  her  gal- 
lery of  portraits  on  the  mantel  —  there  were  two 
fine  ones  of  her  brother  there. 

Helen  was  very  fond  of  her  brother.  I  soon 
found  that  she  loved  to  talk  about  him  —  if  she 


THE  TEST  275 

had  a  good  listener.  Needless  to  say  she  had  a 
very  good  one  in  me. 

Jerry  was  an  artist,  it  seemed.  He  was  twenty- 
eight  years  old,  and  already  he  had  won  no  small 
distinction.  Prizes,  medals,  honorable  mention, 
and  a  special  course  abroad  —  all  these  Helen 
told  me  about.  She  told  me,  too,  about  the  won- 
derful success  he  had  just  had  with  the  portrait 
of  a  certain  New  York  society  woman.  She  said 
that  it  was  just  going  to  "make"  Jerry;  that  he 
could  have  anything  he  wanted  now  —  anything. 
Then  she  told  me  how  popular  he  always  was  with 
everybody.  Helen  was  not  only  very  fond  of  her 
brother,  but  very  proud  of  him.  That  was  plain 
to  be  seen.  In  her  opinion,  evidently,  there  was 
none  to  be  compared  with  him. 

And  apparently,  in  my  own  mind,  I  agreed 
with  her  —  there  was  none  to  be  compared  with 
him.  At  all  events,  all  the  other  boys  that  used  to 
call  and  bring  me  candy  and  send  me  flowers  at 
about  this  time  suffered  woefully  in  comparison 
with  him !  I  remember  that.  So  tame  they  were  — 
so  crude  and  young  and  unpolished! 

I  saw  Jerry  myself  during  the  Easter  vacation 
of  my  second  year  in  college.  Helen  invited  me 
to  go  home  with  her,  and  Mother  wrote  that  I 
might  go.  Helen  had  been  home  with  me  for  the 
Christmas  vacation,  and  Mother  and  Father 
liked  her  very  much.  There  was  no  hesitation, 


276  MARY  MARIE 

therefore,  in  their  consent  that  I  should  visit 
Helen  at  Easter-time.  So  I  went. 

Helen  lived  in  New  York.  Their  home  was  a 
Fifth-Avenue  mansion  with  nine  servants,  four 
automobiles,  and  two  chauffeurs.  Naturally  such 
a  scale  of  living  was  entirely  new  to  me,  and  cor- 
respondingly fascinating.  From  the  elaborately 
uniformed  footman  that  opened  the  door  for  me 
to  the  awesome  French  maid  who  "did"  my 
hair,  I  adored  them  all,  and  moved  as  in  a  dream 
of  enchantment.  Then  came  Jerry  home  from  a 
week-end's  trip  —  and  I  forgot  everything  else. 

I  knew  from  the  minute  his  eyes  looked  into 
mine  that  whatever  I  had  been  before,  I  was  now 
certainly  no  mere  "Oh,  some  friend  of  Helen's." 
I  was  (so  his  eyes  said)  "a  deucedly  pretty  girl, 
and  one  well  worth  cultivating."  Whereupon  he 
began  at  once  to  do  the  "cultivating." 

And  just  here,  perversely  enough,  I  grew  in- 
different. Or  was  it  only  feigned  —  not  con- 
sciously, but  unconsciously?  Whatever  it  was,  it 
did  not  endure  long.  Nothing  could  have  en- 
dured, under  the  circumstances.  Nothing  ever 
endures  —  with  Jerry  on  the  other  side. 

In  less  than  thirty-six  hours  I  was  caught  up  in 
the  whirlwind  of  his  wooing,  and  would  not  have 
escaped  it  if  I  could. 

When  I  went  back  to  college  he  held  my  prom- 
ise that  if  he  could  gain  the  consent  of  Father  and 


THE  TEST  277 

Mother,  he  might  put  the  engagement  ring  on 
my  finger. 

Back  at  college,  alone  in  my  own  room,  I  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  began  to  think.  It  was  the  first 
chance  I  had  had,  for  even  Helen  now  had  be- 
come Jerry  —  by  reflection. 

The  more  I  thought,  the  more  frightened,  dis- 
mayed, and  despairing  I  became.  In  the  clear 
light  of  calm,  sane  reasoning,  it  was  all  so  absurd, 
so  impossible!  What  could  I  have  been  think- 
ing of? 

Of  Jerry,  of  course. 

With  hot  cheeks  I  answered  my  own  question. 
And  even  the  thought  of  him  then  cast  the  spell 
of  his  presence  about  me,  and  again  I  was  back  in 
the  whirl  of  dining  and  dancing  and  motoring, 
with  his  dear  face  at  my  side.  Of  Jerry;  yes,  of 
Jerry  I  was  thinking.  But  I  must  forget  Jerry. 

I  pictured  Jerry  in  Andersonville,  in  my  own 
home.  I  tried  to  picture  him  talking  to  Father, 
to  Mother. 

Absurd!  What  had  Jerry  to  do  with  learned 
treatises  on  stars,  or  with  the  humdrum,  every- 
day life  of  a  stupid  small  town?  For  that  matter, 
what  had  Father  and  Mother  to  do  with  dancing 
and  motoring  and  painting  society  queens'  por- 
traits? Nothing. 

Plainly,  even  if  Jerry,  for  the  sake  of  the 
daughter,  liked  Father  and  Mother,  Father  and 


278  MARY  MARIE 

Mother  certainly  would  not  like  Jerry.  That  was 
certain. 

Of  course  I  cried  myself  to  sleep  that  night. 
That  was  to  be  expected.  Jerry  was  the  world; 
and  the  world  was  lost.  There  was  nothing  left 
except,  perhaps,  a  few  remnants  and  pieces, 
scarcely  worth  the  counting  —  excepting,  of 
course,  Father  and  Mother.  But  one  could  not 
always  have  one's  father  and  mother.  There 
would  come  a  time  when  — 

Jerry's  letter  came  the  next  day  —  by  special 
delivery.  He  had  gone  straight  home  from  the 
station  and  begun  to  write  to  me.  (How  like 
Jerry  that  was  —  particularly  the  special-deliv- 
ery stamp!)  The  most  of  his  letter,  aside  from 
the  usual  lover's  rhapsodies,  had  to  do  with  plans 
for  the  summer  —  what  we  would  do  together  at 
the  Westons'  summer  cottage  in  Newport.  He 
said  he  should  run  up  to  Anderson ville  early  — 
very  early;  just  as  soon  as  I  was  back  from  col- 
lege, in  fact,  so  that  he  might  meet  Father  and 
Mother,  and  put  that  ring  on  my  finger. 

And  while  I  read  the  letter,  I  just  knew  he 
would  do  it.  Why,  I  could  even  see  the  sparkle  of 
the  ring  on  my  finger.  But  in  five  minutes  after 
the  letter  was  folded  and  put  away,  I  knew,  with 
equal  certitude  —  that  he  would  n't. 

It  was  like  that  all  that  spring  term.  While 
under  the  spell  of  the  letters,  as  I  read  them,  I 


THE  TEST  279 

saw  myself  the  adored  wife  of  Jerry  Weston,  and 
happy  ever  after.  All  the  rest  of  the  time  I  knew 
myself  to  be  plain  Mary  Marie  Anderson,  for- 
ever lonely  and  desolate. 

I  had  been  at  home  exactly  eight  hours  when  a 
telegram  from  Jerry  asked  permission  to  come  at 
once. 

As  gently  as  I  could  I  broke  the  news  to  Father 
and  Mother.  He  was  Helen's  brother.  They  must 
have  heard  me  mention  him.  I  knew  him  well,  very 
well,  indeed.  In  fact,  the  purpose  of  this  visit  was 
to  ask  them  for  the  hand  of  their  daughter. 

Father  frowned  and  scolded,  and  said,  "Tut, 
tut!"  and  that  I  was  nothing  but  a  child.  But 
Mother  smiled  and  shook  her  head,  even  while 
she  sighed,  and  reminded  him  that  I  was  twenty 
—  two  whole  years  older  than  she  was  when  she 
married  him;  though  in  the  same  breath  she 
admitted  that  I  was  young,  and  she  certainly 
hoped  I'd  be  willing  to  wait  before  I  married, 
even  if  the  young  man  was  all  that  they  could 
ask  him  to  be. 

Father  was  still  a  little  rebellious,  I  think;  but 
Mother  —  bless  her  dear  sympathetic  heart!  — 
soon  convinced  him  that  they  must  at  least  con- 
sent to  see  this  Gerald  Weston.  So  I  sent  the  wire 
inviting  him  to  come. 

More  fearfully  than  ever  then  I  awaited  the 
meeting  between  my  lover  and  my  father  and 


280  MARY  MARIE 

mother.  With  the  Westerns'  mansion  and  manner 
of  living  in  the  glorified  past,  and  the  Anderson 
homestead,  and  its  manner  of  living,  very  much 
in  the  plain,  unvarnished  present,  I  trembled 
more  than  ever  for  the  results  of  that  meeting. 
Not  that  I  believed  Jerry  would  be  snobbish 
enough  to  scorn  our  simplicity,  but  that  there 
would  be  no  common  meeting-ground  of  conge- 
niality. 

I  need  not  have  worried  —  but  I  did  not  know 
Jerry  then  so  well  as  I  do  now. 

Jerry  came  —  and  he  had  not  been  five  min- 
utes in  the  house  before  it  might  easily  have 
seemed  that  he  had  always  been  there.  He  did 
know  about  stars;  at  least,  he  talked  with  Father 
about  them,  and  so  as  to  hold  Father's  interest, 
too.  And  he  knew  a  lot  about  innumerable  things 
in  which  Mother  was  interested.  He  stayed  four 
days;  and  all  the  while  he  was  there,  I  never  so 
much  as  thought  of  ceremonious  dress  and  din- 
ners, and  liveried  butlers  and  footmen;  nor  did 
it  once  occur  to  me  that  our  simple  kitchen  Nora, 
and  Old  John's  son  at  the  wheel  of  our  one  motor- 
car, were  not  beautifully  and  entirely  adequate,  so 
unassumingly  and  so  perfectly  did  Jerry  unmis- 
takably "fit  in."  (There  are  no  other  words  that 
so  exactly  express  what  I  mean.)  And  in  the  end, 
even  his  charm  and  his  triumph  were  so  unob- 
trusively complete  that  I  never  thought  of  being 


THE  TEST  281 

surprised  at  the  prompt  capitulation  of  both 
Father  and  Mother. 

Jerry  had  brought  the  ring.  (Jerry  always 
brings  his  "rings"  — and  he  never  fails  to  "put 
them  on.")  And  he  went  back  to  New  York  with 
Mother's  promise  that  I  should  visit  them  in 
July  at  their  cottage  in  Newport. 

They  seemed  like  a  dream  —  those  four  days 
—  after  he  had  gone;  and  I  should  have  been 
tempted  to  doubt  the  whole  thing  had  there  not 
been  the  sparkle  of  the  ring  on  my  finger,  and  the 
frequent  reference  to  Jerry  on  the  lips  of  both 
Father  and  Mother. 

They  loved  Jerry,  both  of  them.  Father  said  he 
was  a  fine,  manly  young  fellow;  and  Mother  said 
he  was  a  dear  boy,  a  very  dear  boy.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  much  of  his  painting.  Jerry  himself 
had  scarcely  mentioned  it  to  them,  as  I  remem- 
bered, after  he  had  gone. 

I  went  to  Newport  in  July.  "The  cottage,"  as 
I  suspected,  was  twice  as  large  and  twice  as 
pretentious  as  the  New  York  residence;  and  it 
sported  twice  the  number  of  servants.  Once  again 
I  was  caught  in  the  whirl  of  dinners  and  dances 
and  motoring,  with  the  addition  of  tennis  and 
bathing.  And  always,  at  my  side,  was  Jerry, 
seemingly  living  only  upon  my  lightest  whim  and 
fancy.  He  wished  to  paint  my  portrait;  but  there 
was  no  time,  especially  as  my  visit,  in  accordance 


282  MARY  MARIE 

with  Mother's  inexorable  decision,  was  of  only 
one  week's  duration. 

But  what  a  wonderful  week  that  was !  I  seemed 
to  be  under  a  kind  of  spell.  It  was  as  if  I  were  in  a 
new  world  —  a  world  such  as  no  one  had  ever 
been  in  before.  Oh,  I  knew,  of  course,  that  others 
had  loved  —  but  not  as  we  loved.  I  was  sure  that 
no  one  had  ever  loved  as  we  loved.  And  it  was  so 
much  more  wonderful  than  anything  I  had  ever 
dreamed  of  —  this  love  of  ours.  Yet  all  my  life 
since  my  early  teens  I  had  been  thinking  and 
planning  and  waiting  for  it  —  love.  And  now  it 
had  come  —  the  real  thing.  The  others  —  all  the 
others  had  been  shams  and  make-believes  and 
counterfeits.  To  think  that  I  ever  thought  those 
silly  little  episodes  with  Paul  Mayhew  and  Freddy 
Small  and  Mr.  Harold  Hartshorn  were  love! 
Absurd !  But  now  — 

And  so  I  walked  and  moved  and  breathed  in 
this  spell  that  had  been  cast  upon  me;  and 
thought  —  little  fool  that  I  was !  —  that  never 
had  there  been  before,  nor  could  there  be  again, 
a  love  quite  so  wonderful  as  ours. 

At  Newport  Jerry  decided  that  he  wanted  to 
be  married  right  away.  He  did  n't  want  to  wait 
two  more  endless  years  until  I  was  graduated. 
The  idea  of  wasting  all  that  valuable  time  when 
we  might  be  together!  And  when  there  was  really 
no  reason  for  it,  either  —  no  reason  at  all ! 


THE  TEST  283 

I  smiled  to  myself,  even  as  I  thrilled  at  his 
sweet  insistence.  I  was  pretty  sure  I  knew  two 
reasons  —  two  very  good  reasons  —  why  I  could 
not  marry  before  graduation.  One  reason  was 
Father;  the  other  reason  was  Mother.  I  hinted  as 
much. 

"Ho!  Is  that  all?  '  He  laughed  and  kissed  me. 
"I'll  run  down  and  see  them  about  it,"  he  said 
jauntily. 

I  smiled  again.  I  had  no  more  idea  that  any- 
thing he  could  say  would  — 

But  I  did  n't  know  Jerry  —  then. 

I  had  not  been  home  from  Newport  a  week 
when  Jerry  kept  his  promise  and  "ran  down." 
And  he  had  not  been  there  two  days  before 
Father  and  Mother  admitted  that,  perhaps,  after 
all,  it  would  not  be  so  bad  an  idea  if  I  should  n't 
graduate,  but  should  be  married  instead. 

And  so  I  was  married. 

(Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  Jerry  always  brought 
his  rings  and  put  them  on?) 

And  again  I  say,  and  so  we  were  married. 

But  what  did  we  know  of  each  other?  —  the 
real  other?  True,  we  had  danced  together,  been 
swimming  together,  dined  together,  played  ten- 
nis together.  But  what  did  we  really  know  of  each 
other's  whims  and  prejudices,  opinions  and  per- 
sonal habits  and  tastes?  I  knew,  to  a  word,  what 
Jerry  would  say  about  a  sunset;  and  he  knew,  I 


284  MARY  MARIE 

fancy,  what  I  would  say  about  a  dreamy  waltz 
song.  But  we  did  n't  either  of  us  know  what  the 
other  would  say  to  a  dinnerless  home  with  the 
cook  gone.  We  were  leaving  a  good  deal  to  be 
learned  later  on;  but  we  did  n't  think  of  that. 
Love  that  is  to  last  must  be  built  upon  the  reali- 
zation that  troubles  and  trials  and  sorrows  are 
sure  to  come,  and  that  they  must  be  borne  to- 
gether—  if  one  back  is  not  to  break  under  the 
load.  We  were  entering  into  a  contract,  not  for 
a  week,  but,  presumedly,  for  a  lifetime  —  and  a 
good  deal  may  come  to  one  in  a  lifetime  —  not  all 
of  it  pleasant.  We  had  been  brought  up  in  two 
distinctly  different  social  environments,  but  we 
did  n't  stop  to  think  of  that.  We  liked  the  same 
sunsets,  and  the  same  make  of  car,  and  the  same 
kind  of  ice-cream;  and  we  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  thought  we  knew  the  other  — 
whereas  we  were  really  only  seeing  the  mirrored 
reflection  of  ourselves. 

And  so  we  were  married. 

It  was  everything  that  was  blissful  and  de- 
lightful, of  course,  at  first.  We  were  still  eating 
the  ice-cream  and  admiring  the  sunsets.  I  had 
forgotten  that  there  were  things  other  than  sun- 
sets and  ice-cream,  I  suspect.  I  was  not  twenty- 
one,  remember,  and  my  feet  fairly  ached  to  dance. 
The  whole  world  was  a  show.  Music,  lights, 
laughter  —  how  I  loved  them  all! 


THE  TEST  285 

Marie,  of  course.  Well,  yes,  I  suspect  Marie 
was  in  the  ascendancy  about  that  time.  But  I 
never  thought  of  it  that  way. 

Then  came  the  baby,  Eunice,  my  little  girl; 
and  with  one  touch  of  her  tiny,  clinging  fingers, 
the  whole  world  of  sham  —  the  lights  and  music 
and  glare  and  glitter  just  faded  all  away  into 
nothingness,  where  it  belonged.  As  if  anything 
counted,  with  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  scales ! 

I  found  out  then  —  oh,  I  found  out  lots  of 
things.  You  see,  it  was  n't  that  way  at  all  with 
Jerry.  The  lights  and  music  and  the  glitter  and 
the  sham  did  n't  fade  away  a  mite,  to  him,  when 
Eunice  came.  In  fact,  sometimes  it  seemed  to  me 
they  just  grew  stronger,  if  anything. 

He  did  n't  like  it  because  I  could  n't  go  with 
him  any  more  —  to  dances  and  things,  I  mean. 
He  said  the  nurse  could  take  care  of  Eunice.  As  if 
I  'd  leave  my  baby  with  any  nurse  that  ever  lived, 
for  any  old  dance !  The  idea !  But  Jerry  went.  At 
first  he  stayed  with  me;  but  the  baby  cried,  and 
Jerry  did  n't  like  that.  It  made  him  irritable  and 
nervous,  until  I  was  glad  to  have  him  go.  (Who 
would  n't  be,  with  his  eternal  repetition  of  "Mol- 
lie,  can't  you  stop  that  baby's  crying?"  As  if  that 
was  n't  exactly  what  I  was  trying  to  do,  as  hard 
as  ever  I  could !)  But  Jerry  did  n't  see  it  that  way. 
Jerry  never  did  appreciate  what  a  wonderful, 
glorious  thing  just  being  a  father  is. 


286  MARY  MARIE 

I  think  it  was  at  about  this  time  that  Jerry 
took  up  his  painting  again.  I  guess  I  have  for- 
gotten to  mention  that  all  through  the  first  two 
years  of  our  marriage,  before  the  baby  came,  he 
just  tended  to  me.  He  never  painted  a  single  pic- 
ture. But  after  Eunice  came  — 

But,  after  all,  what  is  the  use  of  going  over 
these  last  miserable  years  like  this?  Eunice  is 
five  now.  Her  father  is  the  most  popular  portrait 
painter  in  the  country.  I  am  almost  tempted  to 
say  that  he  is  the  most  popular  man,  as  well.  All 
the  old  charm  and  magnetism  are  there.  Some- 
times I  watch  him  (for,  of  course,  I  do  go  out  with 
him  once  in  a  while),  and  always  I  think  of  that 
first  day  I  saw  him  at  college.  Brilliant,  polished, 
witty  —  he  still  dominates  every  group  of  which 
he  is  a  member.  Men  and  women  alike  bow  to  his 
charm.  (I  'm  glad  it 's  not  only  the  women.  Jerry 
is  n't  a  bit  of  a  flirt.  I  will  say  that  much  for  him. 
At  any  rate,  if  he  does  flirt,  he  flirts  just  as  desper- 
ately with  old  Judge  Randlett  as  he  does  with  the 
newest  and  prettiest  debutante:  with  serene  im- 
partiality he  bestows  upon  each  the  same  glances, 
the  same  wit,  the  same  adorable  charm.)  Praise, 
attention,  applause,  music,  laughter,  lights  — they 
are  the  breath  of  life  to  him.  Without  them  he 
would  —  But,  there,  he  never  is  without  them, 
so  I  don't  know  what  he  would  be. 

After  all,  I  suspect  that  it's  just  that  Jerry 


THE  TEST  287 

still  loves  the  ice-cream  and  the  sunsets,  and  I 
don't.  That 's  all.  To  me  there 's  something  more 
to  life  than  that  —  something  higher,  deeper, 
more  worth  while.  We  have  n't  a  taste  in  common, 
a  thought  in  unison,  an  aspiration  in  harmony. 
I  suspect  —  in  fact  I  know  —  that  I  get  on  his 
nerves  just  as  raspingly  as  he  does  on  mine.  For 
that  reason  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be  glad  —  when  he 
gets  my  letter. 
But,  some  way,  I  dread  to  tell  Mother. 

Well,  it's  finished.  I've  been  about  four  days 
bringing  this  autobiography  of  Mary  Marie's  to 
an  end.  I've  enjoyed  doing  it,  in  a  way,  though 
I  '11  have  to  admit  I  can't  see  as  it 's  made  things 
any  clearer.  But,  then,  it  was  clear  before.  There 
is  n't  any  other  way.  I've  got  to  write  that  letter. 
As  I  said  before,  I  regret  that  it  must  be  so 
sorry  an  ending. 

I  suppose  to-morrow  I  '11  have  to  tell  Mother. 
I  want  to  tell  her,  of  course,  before  I  write  the 
letter  to  Jerry. 

It'll  grieve  Mother.  I  know  it  will.  And  I'm 
sorry.  Poor  Mother!  Already  she's  had  so  much 
unhappiness  in  her  life.  But  she's  happy  now. 
She  and  Father  are  wonderful  together  —  won- 
derful. Father  is  still  President  of  the  college. 
He  got  out  a  wonderful  book  on  the  "Eclipses 
of  the  Moon"  two  years  ago,  and  he's  publish- 


288  MARY  MARIE 

ing  another  one  about  the  "Eclipses  of  the  Sun" 
this  year.  Mother's  correcting  proof  for  him. 
Bless  her  heart.  She  loves  it.  She  told  me  so. 

Well,  I  shall  have  to  tell  her  to-morrow,  of 
course. 

To-morrow  —  which  has  become  to-day. 

I  wonder  if  Mother  knew  what  I  had  come  into 
her  little  sitting-room  this  morning  to  say.  It 
seems  as  if  she  must  have  known.  And  yet  — 

I  had  wondered  how  I  was  going  to  begin,  but, 
before  I  knew  it,  I  was  right  in  the  middle  of  it  — 
the  subject,  I  mean.  That's  why  I  thought  per- 
haps that  Mother  — 

But  I'm  getting  as  bad  as  little  Mary  Marie 
of  the  long  ago.  I'll  try  now  to  tell  what  did 
happen. 

I  was  wetting  my  lips,  and  swallowing,  and 
wondering  how  I  was  going  to  begin  to  tell  her 
that  I  was  planning  not  to  go  back  to  Jerry, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  I  found  myself  saying  some- 
thing about  little  Eunice.  And  then  Mother  said : 

"Yes,  my  dear;  and  that's  what  comforts  me 
most  of  anything  —  because  you  are  so  devoted 
to  Eunice.  You  see,  I  have  feared  sometimes  — 
for  you  and  Jerry;  that  you  might  separate.  But 
I  know,  on  account  of  Eunice,  that  you  never 
will." 

"But,   Mother,   that's  the  very  reason  —  I 


THE  TEST  289 

mean,  it  would  be  the  reason,"  I  stammered. 
Then  I  stopped.  My  tongue  just  would  n't  move, 
my  throat  and  lips  were  so  dry. 

To  think  that  Mother  suspected  —  knew  al- 
ready —  about  Jerry  and  me;  and  yet  to  say  that 
on  account  of  Eunice  I  would  not  do  it.  Why,  it 
was  for  Eunice,  largely,  that  I  was  going  to  do  it. 
To  let  that  child  grow  up  thinking  that  dancing 
and  motoring  was  all  of  life,  and  — 

But  Mother  was  speaking  again. 

"Eunice  —  yes.  You  mean  that  you  never 
would  make  her  go  through  what  you  went 
through  when  you  were  her  age." 

"Why,  Mother,  I  —  I  —  "  And  then  I  stopped 
again.  And  I  was  so  angry  and  indignant  with 
myself  because  I  had  to  stop,  when  there  were 
so  many,  many  things  that  I  wanted  to  say,  if 
only  my  dry  lips  could  articulate  the  words. 

Mother  drew  her  breath  in  with  a  little  catch. 
She  had  grown  rather  white. 

"I  wonder  if  you  remember  —  if  you  ever 
think  of  —  your  childhood,"  she  said. 

"Why,  yes,  of  —  of  course  —  sometimes."  It 
was  my  turn  to  stammer.  I  was  thinking  of  that 
diary  that  I  had  just  read  —  and  added  to. 

Mother  drew  in  her  breath  again,  this  time 
with  a  catch  that  was  almost  a  sob.  And  then 
she  began  to  talk  —  at  first  haltingly,  with  half- 
finished  sentences;  then  hurriedly,  with  a  rush 


290  MARY  MARIE 

of  words  that  seemed  not  able  to  utter  them- 
selves fast  enough  to  keep  up  with  the  thoughts 
behind  them. 

She  told  of  her  youth  and  marriage,  and  of  my 
coming.  She  told  of  her  life  with  Father,  and  of 
the  mistakes  she  made.  She  told  much,  of  course, 
that  was  in  Mary  Marie's  diary;  but  she  told, 
too,  oh,  so  much  more,  until  like  a  panorama  the 
whole  thing  lay  before  me. 

Then  she  spoke  of  me,  and  of  my  childhood, 
and  her  voice  began  to  quiver.  She  told  of  the 
Mary  and  the  Marie,  and  of  the  dual  nature 
within  me.  (As  if  I  did  n't  know  about  that!)  But 
she  told  me  much  that  I  did  not  know,  and  she 
made  things  much  clearer  to  me,  until  I  saw  — 

You  can  see  things  so  much  more  clearly  when 
you  stand  off  at  a  distance  like  this,  you  know, 
than  you  can  when  you  are  close  to  them! 

She  broke  down  and  cried  when  she  spoke  of 
the  divorce,  and  of  the  influence  it  had  upon  me, 
and  of  the  false  idea  of  marriage  it  gave  me.  She 
said  it  was  the  worst  kind  of  thing  for  me  — 
the  sort  of  life  I  had  to  live.  She  said  I  grew 
pert  and  precocious  and  worldly-wise,  and  full 
of  servants'  talk  and  ideas.  She  even  spoke  of 
that  night  at  the  little  cafe  table  when  I  gloried 
in  the  sparkle  and  spangles  and  told  her  that 
now  we  were  seeing  life  —  real  life.  And  of  how 
shocked  she  was,  and  of  how  she  saw  then  what 


THE  TEST  291 

this  thing  was  doing  to  me.  But  it  was  too 
late. 

She  told  more,  much  more,  about  the  later 
years,  and  the  reconciliation;  then,  some  way, 
she  brought  things  around  to  Jerry  and  me.  Her 
face  flushed  up  then,  and  she  did  n't  meet  my 
eyes.  She  looked  down  at  her  sewing.  She  was 
very  busy  turning  a  hem  just  so. 

She  said  there  had  been  a  time,  once,  when 
she  had  worried  a  little  about  Jerry  and  me,  for 
fear  we  would  —  separate.  She  said  that  she  be- 
lieved that,  for  her,  that  would  have  been  the 
very  blackest  moment  of  her  life;  for  it  would  be 
her  fault,  all  her  fault. 

I  tried  to  break  in  here,  and  say,  "No,  no," 
and  that  it  was  n't  her  fault;  but  she  shook  her 
head  and  would  n't  listen,  and  she  lifted  her 
hand,  and  I  had  to  keep  still  and  let  her  go  on 
talking.  She  was  looking  straight  into  my  eyes 
then,  and  there  was  such  a  deep,  deep  hurt  in 
them  that  I  just  had  to  listen. 

She  said  again  that  it  would  be  her  fault;  that 
if  I  had  done  that  she  would  have  known  that  it 
was  all  because  of  the  example  she  herself  had 
set  me  of  childish  willfulness  and  selfish  seeking 
of  personal  happiness  at  the  expense  of  every- 
thing and  everybody  else.  And  she  said  that  that 
would  have  been  the  last  straw  to  break  her 
heart. 


292  MARY  MARIE 

But  she  declared  that  she  was  sure  now  that 
she  need  not  worry.  Such  a  thing  would  never  be. 

I  guess  I  gasped  a  little  at  this.  Anyhow,  I 
know  I  tried  to  break  in  and  tell  her  that  we 
were  going  to  separate,  and  that  that  was  exactly 
what  I  had  come  into  the  room  in  the  first  place 
to  say. 

But  again  she  kept  right  on  talking,  and  I  was 
silenced  before  I  had  even  begun. 

She  said  how  she  knew  it  could  never  be  —  on 
account  of  Eunice.  That  I  would  never  subject 
my  little  girl  to  the  sort  of  wretchedly  divided 
life  that  I  had  had  to  live  when  I  was  a  child. 

(As  she  spoke  I  was  suddenly  back  in  the  cob- 
webby attic  with  little  Mary  Marie's  diary,  and 
I  thought  —  what  if  it  were  Eunice  —  writing 
that!) 

She  said  I  was  the  most  devoted  mother  she 
had  ever  known;  that  I  was  too  devoted,  she 
feared  sometimes,  for  I  made  Eunice  all  my 
world,  to  the  exclusion  of  Jerry  and  everything 
and  everybody  else.  But  that  she  was  very  sure, 
because  I  was  so  devoted,  and  loved  Eunice  so 
dearly,  that  I  would  never  deprive  her  of  a 
father's  love  and  care. 

I  shivered  a  little,  and  looked  quickly  into 
Mother's  face.  But  she  was  not  looking  at  me. 
I  was  thinking  of  how  Jerry  had  kissed  and  kissed 
Eunice  a  month  ago,  when  we  came  away,  as  if 


THE  TEST  293 

he  just  could  n't  let  her  go.  Jerry  is  fond  of 
Eunice,  now  that  she 's  old  enough  to  know  some- 
thing, and  Eunice  adores  her  father.  I  knew 
that  part  was  going  to  be  hard.  And  now  to  have 
Mother  put  it  like  that  — 

I  began  to  talk  then  of  Jerry.  I  just  felt  that 
I'd  got  to  say  something.  That  Mother  must 
listen.  That  she  did  n't  understand.  I  told  her 
how  Jerry  loved  lights  and  music  and  dancing, 
and  crowds  bowing  down  and  worshiping  him  all 
the  time.  And  she  said  yes,  she  remembered;  that 
he  'd  been  that  way  when  I  married  him. 

She  spoke  so  sort  of  queerly  that  again  I 
glanced  at  her;  but  she  still  was  looking  down  at 
the  hem  she  was  turning. 

I  went  on  then  to  explain  that  I  did  n't  like 
such  things;  that  /  believed  that  there  were 
deeper  and  higher  things,  and  things  more  worth 
while.  And  she  said  yes,  she  was  glad,  and  that 
that  was  going  to  be  my  saving  grace;  for,  of 
course,  I  realized  that  there  could  n't  be  any- 
thing deeper  or  higher  or  more  worth  while  than 
keeping  the  home  together,  and  putting  up  with 
annoyances,  for  the  ultimate  good  of  all,  espe- 
cially of  Eunice. 

She  went  right  on  then  quickly,  before  I  could 
say  anything.  She  said  that,  of  course,  I  under- 
stood that  I  was  still  Mary  and  Marie,  even  if 
Jerry  did  call  me  Mollie;  and  that  if  Marie  had 


294  MARY  MARIE 

married  a  man  that  was  n't  always  congenial 
with  Mary,  she  was  very  sure  Mary  had  enough 
stamina  and  good  sense  to  make  the  best  of  it; 
and  she  was  very  sure,  also,  that  if  Mary  would 
only  make  a  little  effort  to  be  once  in  a  while  the 
Marie  he  had  married,  things  might  be  a  lot 
easier  —  for  Mary. 

Of  course,  I  laughed  at  that.  I  had  to.  And 
Mother  laughed,  too.  But  we  understood.  We 
both  understood.  I  had  never  thought  of  it  be- 
fore, but  I  had  been  Marie  when  I  married 
Jerry.  I  loved  lights  and  music  and  dancing  and 
gay  crowds  just  exactly  as  well  as  he  did.  And 
it  was  n't  his  fault  that  I  suddenly  turned  into 
Mary  when  the  baby  came,  and  wanted  him  to 
stay  at  home  before  the  fire  every  evening  with 
his  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  No  wonder  he 
was  surprised.  He  had  n't  married  Mary  —  he 
never  knew  Mary  at  all.  But,  do  you  know?  I'd 
never  thought  of  that  before  —  until  Mother 
said  what  she  did.  Why,  probably  Jerry  was  just 
as  much  disappointed  to  find  his  Marie  turned 
into  a  Mary  as  I  — 

But  Mother  was  talking  again. 

She  said  that  she  thought  Jerry  was  a  wonder- 
ful man,  in  some  ways;  that  she  never  saw  a  man 
with  such  charm  and  magnetism,  or  one  who 
could  so  readily  adapt  himself  to  different  per- 
sons and  circumstances.  And  she  said  she  was 


THE  TEST  295 

very  sure  if  Mary  could  only  show  a  little  more 
interest  in  pictures  (especially  portraits),  and 
learn  to  discuss  lights  and  shadows  and  per- 
spectives, that  nothing  would  be  lost,  and  that 
something  might  be  gained;  that  there  was 
nothing,  anyway,  like  a  community  of  interest 
or  of  hobbies  to  bring  two  people  together;  and 
that  it  was  safer,  to  say  the  least,  when  it  was 
the  wife  that  shared  the  community  of  interest 
than  when  it  was  some  other  woman,  though,  of 
course,  she  knew  as  well  as  I  knew  that  Jerry 
never  would  —  She  did  n't  finish  her  sentence, 
and  because  she  did  n't  finish  it,  it  made  me 
think  all  the  more.  And  I  wondered  if  she  left  it 
unfinished  —  on  purpose. 

Then,  in  a  minute,  she  was  talking  again. 

She  was  speaking  of  Eunice.  She  said  once 
more  that  because  of  her,  she  knew  that  she  need 
never  fear  any  serious  trouble  between  Jerry7  and 
me,  for,  after  all,  it's  the  child  that  always  pays 
for  the  mother's  mistakes  and  short-sightedness, 
just  as  it  is  the  soldier  that  pays  for  his  command- 
ing officer's  blunders.  That 's  why  she  felt  that  I 
had  had  to  pay  for  her  mistakes,  and  why  she 
knew  that  I  'd  never  compel  my  little  girl  to  pay 
for  mine.  She  said  that  the  mother  lives  in  the 
heart  of  the  child  long  after  the  mother  is  gone, 
and  that  was  why  the  mother  always  had  to  be 
—  so  careful. 


296  MARY  MARIE 

Then,  before  I  knew  it,  she  was  talking  briskly 
and  brightly  about  something  entirely  different; 
and  two  minutes  later  I  found  myself  alone 
outside  of  her  room.  And  I  had  n't  told  her. 

But  I  was  n't  even  thinking  of  that.  I  was 
thinking  of  Eunice,  and  of  that  round,  childish 
scrawl  of  a  diary  upstairs  in  the  attic  trunk.  And 
I  was  picturing  Eunice,  in  the  years  to  come, 
writing  her  diary;  and  I  thought,  what  if  she 
should  have  to  — 

I  went  upstairs  then  and  read  that  diary 
again.  And  all  the  while  I  was  reading  I  thought 
of  Eunice.  And  when  it  was  finished  I  knew  that 
I'd  never  tell  Mother,  that  I'd  never  write  to 
Jerry  —  not  the  letter  that  I  was  going  to  write. 
I  knew  that  — 

They  brought  Jerry's  letter  to  me  at  just  that 
point.  What  a  wonderful  letter  that  man  can 
write  —  when  he  wants  to ! 

He  says  he 's  lonesome  and  nomesick,  and  that 
the  house  is  like  a  tomb  without  Eunice  and  me, 
and  when  am  I  coming  home? 

I  wrote  him  to-night  that  I  was  going  —  to- 
morrow. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 

U   .   S    .   A 


